


Reprise

by TrulyCertain



Series: Shield Raised [4]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-11-08 06:53:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 43,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11076315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: In which, because of miscommunication and fear, the Inquisitor screws up the best thing he's ever had. And then he tries to unscrew it. He'll get there eventually, with a lot of help from Dorian. The "they broke up in Trespasser for duty's sake and realised it was a mistake" AU.Featuring: Angst! Adventure! Snogging! The Fade! Swishy magister hair! Maps! (Wait, no one's here for the maps...) Caves! Fluffy endings! Other stuff!





	1. on the nature of daylight

Surprising how quickly the furore over an attempted Qunari invasion can end; how quickly an Inquisition can become dust in the wind. In the days after Gal wakes up and matter-of-factly disbands the Inquisition, they watch the troops and scouts that used to be theirs drift away. Some of the inner circle have remained, but few.

Even though he looks pale and drained, Gal insists on leaving the Winter Palace as soon as possible. Dorian says something about being traumatised by Orlesian draperies, but it doesn’t even get a laugh; Gal tries for a smile that seems pained, false on his face. Josephine watches him in worry, but Gal just heads off to get changed out of the stiff uniform he had to wear for the Council. He comes back in his old mail and leathers, the left sleeve neatly pinned and a glove shoved into his pocket, with his hair loose. “Josephine, you’re breaking off for Antiva?”

She nods. “There’s a route that will take me to the port…”

Dorian swallows, and tries to see the future - or at least, tries to see one that doesn’t leave him feeling more than a little despairing. He’s managed a week: a week spent by Gal’s bedside and praying for him to wake up, and then spent speaking to him and reassuring him, trying to make him laugh. _It’s a shame I can’t use you as a reading light anymore, amatus, but… I’m so glad to have you alive. So very glad._ He’s watched Gal retreat inwards, become silent as stone again, something dull and terribly sad settling in those familiar eyes.

He spent last night wrapped around Gal, trying to sleep and failing, wondering why it felt like he was clinging to a man who was slipping away. He remembers Gal’s half-conscious fidgeting: that remaining hand on his arm, touching his face, as if to make sure he was real. Ironic, and unexpected, when he’s been wondering who this distant statue, this caricature of a responsible Inquisitor, has done with the man he loves. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one clinging.

He’s managed a week, and he’s out of excuses. He’s tried everything from Gal’s condition to not being able to secure passage on a ship, but Gal is apparently healed enough to journey and he received a message from the port yesterday. He’s stretched _I’m leaving as soon as the Exalted Council is done_ beyond reason.

He steels himself - chin up, Pavus, there we are - and when Josephine wanders off to begin packing, he takes Gal’s arm.

Something crosses Gal’s face before it’s swiftly hidden away again. Fear, perhaps. Gal moves on instinct, letting himself be led until they’re in a quieter, leaf-shaded courtyard.

When they come to a halt, Dorian tries to smile, and sighs. “I suppose I’d better be going. I’ve received several angry letters, and there’s a ship in port with my name on it.”

Gal looks at him, still with that level resignation that’s been there since the Darvaraad, since Solas. “So this is it, then.” There isn’t a question in Gal’s voice.

“Far from it. There are - Gal?”

That frightening stillness is settling over Gal, as if he’s steeling himself for pain. His eyes are bleak. “I’m sorry. I… I can’t.”

Dorian laughs, but it’s more to cover the rising panic. “You can’t what? Believe me, I know it’s hard to say goodbye, but it’s only - “

Shaking his head, Gal says, “I’m sorry. This, us. I can’t, Dorian.”

Dorian can only stare in disbelief. “Surely you’re not suggesting a little thing like an ocean might come between us?”

Gal swallows, and, most worryingly of all, raises his chin and meets Dorian’s eye. It’s the careful Chantry-trained posture and the bleakness in his eyes. He looks like nothing less than the hollowed-out man Dorian saw those first days in Haven - except so much more tired. Older and smaller, somehow. Gal says, “You’ve seen the way the wind is blowing. The Inquisition’s gone, after this.” When Dorian opens his mouth to protest, Gal adds, “Better than being owned. You’re going to be a magister. The best I can be is… a distraction. Someone to weigh you down. They’ll try and use me against you.”

“Yes, I remember saying the same things to you. And I remember you telling me they were nonsense.”

“They were. You’re…” Gal reaches out. “You’re not the problem.”

For some reason he will never be able to fathom on the nights when he lies and tortures himself with this over and over again, Dorian steps back, out of reach. He laughs once more, and this time it’s a sharp, pointed thing, entirely without humour. “’It’s not you, it’s me’? How original.”

Gal runs an agitated hand through his hair. “It’s the truth. You couldn’t even tell me you were leaving. I thought we were past that - ”

“Lack of time, not lack of inclination. I meant to find you, I had a plan…”

Gal swallows, looks away. “Wish I believed you.”

“So what should I have done, marched up to you and caused you to make that face in front of the Orlesian ambassador?”

“Doesn’t matter now. You’re leaving, and I’m in your way.”

“That’s not true, you have to understand… ”

“I’m sorry. I love you - “

“No.” Dorian hates the way his voice betrays him, trembling. “No, you don’t, or we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“I do. So much.” Gal’s voice is becoming rougher now. This is a realer man than the one who stood in front of the Exalted Council, but the price of seeing him is far too much. “I wish… I wish I could stay with you. Wish I could believe we’d last.”

“What, so I’m to lose everything? My father and my - And you.“ Dorian’s shaking, and he can’t even look at Gal. It will say too much. He thinks, to his horror, that the stinging in his eyes may not be the beginnings of an anger-related headache but tears.

(He should never have stayed. He should never have taken those promises at face value; he should never have believed that he could love an Inquisitor, love _anyone_. He shouldn’t have believed that anyone would stay, why would they? It’s always the hope that kills. His father should have taught him that well enough.)

“Dorian.” Gal’s voice is still steady, quiet. “I can still be your friend. I’ll do everything I can. I just can’t - “

Dorian steps forwards and demands, “What? Be bothered to try? At least pretend this is worth saving?”

“The others are leaving. The Inquisition’s dissolved. You’ve all got somewhere to go or someone to be, and I… haven’t.”

Dorian exhales a sharp breath of disbelief. “So, what, this is self-pity? You’ve got to leave before you’re left?”

There’s something trapped in Gal’s eyes, something afraid. That hit a nerve. “It’s… Everyone’s got somewhere they need to be, Dorian. This is more important than you and me. Tevinter needs you. You can’t be worrying about me when - ”

“Perhaps things would be bloody easier if we had help! If you didn’t just leave the moment I needed you!”

“Better gone than a lead weight around your neck,” Gal snaps, and it’s the first time he’s raised his voice outside of a battle.

Dorian steps closer, and the volume of his voice was already rising, but now it’s a true shout. “I told you, you were never that! You never will be! Why can’t you just - ”

Gal’s face twists. “Then what? What am I meant to be, when you’re standing in front of a Magisterium that’s waiting to denounce you?”

Dorian opens his mouth, and then he can’t help himself - he crosses the space between them, takes Gal’s face in his hands and rests their foreheads together, feeling Gal freeze. “My beloved,” he says. He presses a brief, shaky kiss to Gal’s lips, unsure if that or the plea in his voice is causing Gal’s surprise. “Please, amatus, don’t do this to me. Please. You promised - “

For brief, wonderful moments Gal returns the kiss, that remaining hand coming up to cup Dorian’s face, to press him closer.

And then Gal makes a sharp, despairing noise, and jerks back, turning his head away. Dorian reaches out, but Gal only shifts back and says, “I’m sorry.”

“No, you don’t get to be sorry, you get to… to tell me this was all just a moment of madness and you’ll write to me, you’ll speak to me, you’ll… anything. Please, anything.” Dorian wonders when he took Gal’s hand. “This is… a firm request, by the way. Don’t make me beg.” He laughs, and it’s weak, a hopeless thing, and that’s when he realises he’s far past slight tears.

“I’ll write to you. Speak to you. But not as… I can’t be.” Gal swallows.

The anger is back again, rising in Dorian’s throat, choking him. He puts space between them again, unable to bear touching Gal while hearing this. “Then you don’t love me. You can’t, or you wouldn’t be doing this.”

Gal’s voice is utterly bleak as he echoes those words - ones from years ago, now. “Sometimes love’s not enough.”

Dorian shuts his eyes, inhales. “Don’t you dare…“

“Would it be easier if I said I didn’t? I’ll say it, if you want me to. I don’t - ”

Scrubbing a hand across his face, Dorian manages, “But it’s not - Fuck. I don’t believe you.”

That careful, awful Chantry-trained blankness is back on Gal’s face. Gal says, slowly, “You know how it is. Any port in a storm.” He looks into Dorian’s eyes and adds, “Storm’s passed, Magister Pavus.”

Dorian stands, white knuckled, and breathes, so he won’t set something on fire. “You bastard.”

Gal nods once, curtly, but won’t look at him.

With that Dorian walks away, trying desperately to control his magic, his face, all of it. He should have expected this; being in the south has made him naive. He looks back, once, and Gal is watching the sky, gazing at the scar where the Breach used to be.

He scrubs a hand over his face, trying to remove some of the evidence of his lapse, and throws the simplest of glamours over himself - something to disguise the red eyes and the smudged kohl; it wouldn’t stand up to a decently skilled mage or templar, but he won’t meet many of those, now the Inquisition is gone. Then he straightens his spine, remembers the expression his father used to adopt before speaking to the Senate - hands trembling on parchment, the muttering that came with desperately trying to memorise a speech, _Dorian, someday you will be better than me at this_ \- and takes it for himself. He wears it the rest of the way through the palace, even as the troops stare at him, some of them offering a quiet acknowledgement or a wave and a grin. Yes, he even knows some of their names. Attachment is a terrible thing.

He takes a ship the next day, before he can think too much. It’s easier that way.


	2. miles from where you are

Gal dreams. He thought the nightmares would leave with the Mark, but it looks like he was wrong.

Sometimes he dreams of Dorian bleeding out, or caught in some magister’s thrall. He remembers the horror stories he used to hear, and some Dorian used to tell him, too, with false laughter, trying to make them casual. Later the real ones, with anger and disgust and maybe a little fear. He remembers Dorian’s utter hatred of blood magic.

Sometimes he dreams of other things, and those hurt… as much. Maybe more.

Sometimes Dorian’s next to him, muttering about the freezing South and hogging the blankets, and Gal wraps both arms round him before he can protest. Or Dorian’s reading next to him in comfortable silence, trying to get through _just one more page, amatus, stop distracting me_.

Sometimes the dreams are different. Familiar, clever hands in his hair, or clenching in the sheets, or leaving spells in their wake, trying to memorise him. The way Dorian used to watch him, touch him - with something like wonder, never hidden fast enough. And the words recited against his skin, his mouth, like a spell or a prayer: _I love you._ And when he’d say it back, the way Dorian would laugh and manage through gritted teeth, on the edge of a gasp, _Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that._ They both knew it was a lie. Gal dreams of repeating _I love you,_ just to say it and have it heard, and feeling Dorian shake against him.

Then there are the other dreams, the other ways they used to say it. He dreams of Dorian elbowing him while they discuss some theory on a bed covered with books, half-out of the blankets, and _You mad bastard. I have no idea why I love you._ Like always, Gal just grins and watches Dorian try not to snort, watches the way Dorian looks at him with that fascinated, barely-hidden fondness.

And then he’s awake, blinking in the dark and reaching out to the other side of the bed before realising it’s empty, and he can’t breathe. _I love you,_ he mouths, burying his head in the pillow. If the linens get damp, it’s probably sweat.

 

 

His hands are shaking, Dorian notices; the thought seems to come from somewhere far away, to belong to someone who is very definitely not him. He blames the journey over; someday, _someday_ he will find a magical cure for seasickness, but today was very obviously not that day. He adjusts his birthright where it sits against his chest, more prominent than it has been in years. These are the finest robes he’s worn in some time, too. He’s never been overly fond of wearing black, but there will be certain… expectations, now he’s no longer just the layabout son of House Pavus. 

He meets his own eyes in the looking-glass, and inhales. This is far from the first time he’s done this, but now, more than ever, he will be judged as _his father’s son._ And found lacking, obviously.

“So you’ve dragged yourself away from your ‘vested interest in the South’.” When Dorian turns, Maevaris is leaning against the doorframe, her arms crossed, watching him with the hint of a smile.

He swallows, and tries for a smile of his own. He used to be so good at this. “You know me. I couldn’t last another day without decent wine and hot springs. Now, the Magisterium is waiting. I’d hate to disappoint them.”

“How is he?”

He raises an eyebrow. “How’s who?” Yes, he’s stalling. Hopefully she’ll just decide this is one of his usual verbal games and let him get away with it.

She raises a brow back. Damn it, she’s going to be sensible at him; even she has her moments of it. “Your man in the South. How did he take the news?”

He runs a hand through his hair, and laughs. “About as well as I did. But he’s frighteningly tough. He’ll be all right in the end.” His smile feels terribly false on his face. He takes his staff from his luggage and gives it an experimental twirl; even with his returns here, he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be in a house that has halls and high ceilings, room to show off. To think he used to find such luxuries almost ordinary. Part of not being in a ramshackle village or a Ferelden fortress, he supposes. He’ll just have to get used to it all again.

“Show-off,” she says, fondly.

“Yes, well, some things never change.” He wraps his hands tighter around his staff grip and starts the walk to the door, trying his best not to think of the sending crystal on his desk.

“Dorian…” she starts. When he looks up, she says, “Your father would be proud of you.”

He snorts, unable to even dignify that with a response.

“But never mind that. It’s good to have you back.”

“It’s good to be home,” he lies, and then he falls into step with her, and they head out to speak for the Lucerni.

 

 

Stupid. It should never have happened.

Gal got out of Skyhold because he was sick of watching the dust settle where his friends used to be and there were no new leads on Solas’ activities. He took a couple of the troops who stayed after the Council. He’d heard of a few mages hassling travellers and asking for “the Inquisitor”: apostates, he’d thought, and a good enough excuse to stretch his legs. He’s still getting used to fighting without the arm - Dagna’s said something about some kind of prosthetic but it hasn’t happened yet, so he’s been trying to work out if he can strap the shield to what’s left. He doesn’t know, and if he gets that wrong it’ll just weigh him down and leave him in pain too, so he went without it.

He wants to say it was the lack of a shield, not the lack of a decent mage beside him and a strong barrier. He knows he’s decent with just a sword - more than decent - but somehow he still ended up with the other two distracted fending off spellcasters and him on the ground, with a mage grabbing his hair, detaching a staff blade and then pressing it against his throat.

Not apostates. He recognised the casting, the designs on their robes. He managed to look the mage in the eye and grit out, “ _Esta Venatori?_ ” He thought they’d all gone underground after their “new god” fucked off and died. But they talk too much, he remembered that. Could use it.

The mage snorted. “You still speak like a _soporati._ But yes, yes, _esta Venatori._ ” The blade moved, and then the mage’s hand was round Gal’s throat instead. “I wonder what your _vulgati_ lover will think of this, when we give him your corpse.”

Gal felt the blade at his scalp, and knew. He thought of a Chantry courtyard years ago. Shoved it aside. (Just bait. Anger clouds the mind. _Distraction is death_ , his instructors used to say.) He kept reaching downwards, kept it slow, and ignored the cutting of the blade.

He reached the dagger from his boot. Gripped it, sank it into the mage’s thigh. He heard the man scream and the grip loosened. He ducked down and got out of the mage’s grip, grabbing for his sword and finding it. It only took him a few minutes to behead the mage and then finish off the other two Venatori. A few minutes too many. It should never have happened. Wouldn’t have happened before, he thinks as he sheathes his sword. It takes longer than it used to, when he had both hands.

One of the soldiers comes up to him, limping slightly. She’s pretending not to stare, and he thinks he knows why. “Thought the Venatori were gone, ser. I thought they’d all gone north.”

“So did I.” He passes her a health potion. She thanks him, taking it and swigging it.

Dorian would be laughing and glad they were alive, but saying something pointed about _complacency_ right now. He wouldn’t be wrong.

Gal mouths _Fuck_ and scrapes a hand through his… hair. Pauses.

He turns to look back at the corpse of the mage who had him, and sees brown cuttings next to the pool of blood, blowing away in the wind. Numb, he walks to the edge of the lake a few feet away and stares down at his reflection. He reaches up and pulls away more hair. Throws it into the water. Touches the back of his neck and feels how bare it is.

Then he turns and says to the soldiers, ignoring their wide-eyed looks, “Move out.”

 

 

Dorian looks up from the petition he’s writing, his quill pausing at a prickle down his spine. It’s the worst feeling - the certainty that Gal’s just in the next room, or at a meeting. In a moment, perhaps two, Gal will return from whatever he’s been doing and Dorian will smile to see him.

And then the memories return. _Any port in a storm._

He remembers telling Gal about the architecture in Minrathous, the way there was nothing like it; the way you could find history on every street, past Archons and rebellions and Divines round every corner. He remembers Gal’s eyes lighting up, and he remembers murmuring against Gal’s neck one night, “Believe me, if I could show you, I would. Someday, perhaps.”

He’d spoken of the muggy heat of the nights here, too. He wonders, then, why he so often feels cold. Why he wakes up curled round pillows he doesn’t remember taking.

“Is there a reason you’re staring moodily at a pillar?” Mae says behind him.

He says, “I’m just remembering our appointment with the idiot from Thracen.”

“That’s a harsh way to talk about Laris. He’s really rather fond of you, you know. He just hides it well.”

“Most people do.”

The chair next to him scrapes, and then she sits down, watching him like a hawk. “What is it really?”

He pauses, and tries to find some quip or excuse. Eventually he just sighs and says, “Give me a week. Then I promise, we’ll talk about it.”

It isn’t a week. It’s a fortnight before she finds him sitting against the bookcase in his office behind a door he really had thought was locked, sobriety a distant memory. Once again, she sits next to him, quietly picking the decanter up and examining it. “Antivan brandy. I’m impressed. It looks like the good stuff, too.”

He can’t bring himself to respond; he only stares at the opposite wall.

“Dorian, what _happened?”_ There’s the clink of a glass and she adds, _“_ You aren’t even judging me for stealing your stash.”

He swallows another mouthful of brandy and then says, “What do you think happened?” His voice is rougher than he intended it to be. “He left me.”

“Dorian… Why didn’t you say something?”

“It was inevitable, I suppose.” With a humourless laugh, he says, “My father was right. They never stay.”

“I’m going to set him on fire. And I’m not certain whether I mean Halward or your Galahad. Perhaps both of them.” She inhales, and starts on the brandy herself.

“He’s not _my_ anything.”

_“Three years_. You were together three years, you’ve said. Why _now?”_

“I wish I knew.” He laughs again, but it comes out cracked and shaky, somehow wrong.

“Oh, Dorian… Oh, _kaffas_ …” She reaches into her robes and pulls out something made of silk.

A handkerchief, he realises. She passes it to him, and he puts down his glass, feels at his face. His fingers come away wet.

“Oh,” he says, dully.

 

 

When Gal hears half the troops outside the great hall suddenly ended up with their helmets on backwards, he knows. He grins, but leaves it alone. It’s only a couple of hours later, when he’s in the tavern and halfway through a pint, that she swings her leg over a stool next to him and says, “What did you _do?_ ”

Oh. So it’s that.

Gal takes a swig of ale, but doesn’t look at Sera. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I get a letter from Fancypants telling me ‘good luck with turning civilisation upside-down’ and telling me I shouldn’t let you get yourself killed. And then I ask him why he can’t do that in between all the fancy magister shite and he says you haven’t talked in _how long?_ ”

“Sera…”

“You and Dorian. Talking. It’s all you _do_. Other than the other thing. And now you’re all sadface and you won’t look at me. So what did you _do?_ And it’s got to be you, right, because he wouldn’t screw you up like this.”

Gal snorts. There’s no humour in it. “Thanks. You’re right, but thanks.”

“So?”

“I told him it was over.” Gal takes a heavy drink.

“What, the Inquisition?”

“Us.”

Then Gal nearly falls off his stool when he gets swatted round the head, and Sera says, “Shit’s sake! Knew you were stupid, but this is… this a whole new stupid!”

Gal sighs. “He’s better off without me.”  
  
”You wouldn’t know _better off_ if it hit you in the face.” Then she’s stealing his tankard. “Ugh. This is the dwarf stuff, innit?”

Shrugging, Gal replies, “Might be.”

“What are you _doing?_ Just… send him a letter or something. Say you’ll wax his moustache. Naked.”

Gal looks at her fuzzily, and rubs a hand over his forehead. “Naked… moustaches?”

“No, you’d be naked. He’d be…” She grimaces, and then snorts. “Shut up. Just go and say sorry.”

“I can’t,” Gal says.

“What, cause he’s far away? You two are good at far away. You managed it before when he was stuck with his crap family.”

“It’s not…” Gal stares at the table and inhales shakily. “It’s not the distance. I told you, he’s better off without…” He pauses, trying to keep his composure. Fuck. It used to be so easy, before he knew them all. Before people knew _him._ “I’ll just make things worse for him. He deserves better.”

She pauses, and leans to squint at him before asking quietly, “Are you _crying_?”

“No.”

“Liar. Not even going to start on the hair.” He’s kept it short. It’d only grow unevenly, and he needs a reminder of his bloody idiocy. Something to tell him not to do it again.

“Fuck off, Sera.” His voice is still shaking.

She snorts. “It’s good to see you too, Inky. Can still call you that, right?”

“Sorry. I - Sorry.”

“I know.”

 

 

They watch him expectantly, hands resting on their staves, or some of them whisper and laugh, thinking he can’t hear them. Dorian wants to do something to break the stillness - run a hand through his hair, or burn the building to the ground, perhaps - but these robes are somewhat constricting and any sign of weakness will be enough for the Magisterium. 

He begins, his throat tightening, “The Inquisitor was - “

Brave. Kind. Cruel. Beautiful when he threw his head back and laughed freely, without fear. The finest man Dorian’s known. The worst.

“ - one small piece of what needs to be larger. The idea that the Venatori problem is solved is a fallacy. The Inquisition only served to expose something that is still in the core of our society.”

Even if _the Venatori problem_ can barely write threatening letters, he thinks, recalling the blood-spattered parchment and some truly appalling grammar. The few underground chapters left behind seem particularly hopeless. Perhaps they needed a decent leader. It doesn’t matter: he’ll find them. He always does.

 

 

Gal flexes the metal fingers ( _the,_ they still don’t feel _his)_ , watching the magic flow through them. Green. He barely stops himself laughing bitterly. Months without the Mark, and of course his hand still ends up green.

“How’s it feel?” Dagna asks.

He lifts it experimentally, and stares at it. “It’s… heavy. Still feels a bit like holding something. Not sure I could wear it for a long time.”

She nods, her brow crinkling. “Right, well. Gotta work on that. Thanks.” She exhales. “Think I saw some Tevene enchantments…”

Gal detaches the… arm carefully, lifting it to examine it. “Beautiful piece of smithing,” he says ruefully.

She just grins up at him. “Yeah, sure, but I’m making this for you, not just to look pretty. Leave it with me, I’ll work something out.” She nods, determined.

He passes it back to her, as gently as he can. Pauses. “Thank you. I…” He swallows.

“Anytime,” she says brightly.

He nods and leaves, thinking that he can see why Sera insists Dagna is _the best at everything._ ** _Everything._** He trudges up the stairs to his quarters and then pauses, thinking of _Tevene enchantments._ Thinking of someone who’d know. ( _Unexpected uses of magic. Little wonders._ And Dorian would grin while doing something like levitating books or toasting bread with a snap of his fingers.)

He finds himself at his desk, pulling out one of the draws and reaching in. His hand comes out clutching a familiar sending crystal. He looks at it, rubs some of the dust away with a thumb. He thinks of hearing Dorian’s voice again…

That’s assuming the other crystal would still be in use. Even if it was, he’d be bothering Dorian with something that isn’t his problem. Not like he has the right. Dorian’s got enough to worry about, and Gal’s got no right to ask for favours after letting him down so badly. 

This is the fifth time. This is the fifth time he’s nearly given in. It’s too easy to reach.

Gal looks at the crystal, lifts it slowly and then takes three flights of stairs, down to the arcane library he hasn’t used in months. He lays the crystal down on the dusty desk with shaking fingers, then leaves. He shuts the door behind him, and doesn’t look back.

 

 

 

Dorian frowns when Mae says, “You ought to do something with that. 

“With what?”

She gestures to his hair. “It’s past the awkward-growing-out stage and getting to be truly abominable. Either cut it or extend it properly. The man I knew would never have let it slide. Other than when you spent that year drinking.”

“I’ve been rather busy killing idiot lordlings,” he mutters. But he happens to glance at his reflection, and pauses. “You’re right. I… didn’t realise.”

She sighs. “It’s been over a year since you arrived. Hair happens.”

“Yes,” he says, staring at himself. “It does.”

 

 

 

The third time they walk into a Venatori ambush, Gal starts going through the Venatori’s pockets - more slowly now, bloody pockets never used to be so difficult - and squints at the parchment he pulls out. He gets as far as _The Lucerni_ and _Fen’Harel’s people_ before he sits back on his heels _._

“ _Fuck_.”

 

 

“You can’t be serious.” Dorian leans back in his chair and stares at her.

Mae gives him a look that’s probably meant to be reassuring, but thoroughly misses the mark. “I’m afraid I am.”

He crosses his arms. “Why do they need _our_ help? All told, they’ve been wiping the floor with the Venatori. As have we. Here, in a country that needs us to stand and debate and occasionally set things on fire while we attempt to hold the government together with spit, glue and prayer.”

“They say - _he_ says - the Venatori have people in the Lucerni. And this Fen’Harel, too.”

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his forehead. “ _Kaffas._ And we were worried about the Inquisition being corrupt before all this. Bloody _complacency,”_ he hisses, through his teeth.

“Apparently he doesn’t know enough about our operations to be of much use, but he says he needs to do something about Fen’Harel’s agents. Something about it being his fault?” She frowns.

He shakes his head. “The bloody idiot. It would have happened without him, without _any_ of us. If some other poor wretch had picked up the orb…” He sighs. “Can’t we send some underlings? Lucia is experienced enough, certainly, and Marcellus - ”

She looks at him levelly. “You know best what happened with Fen’Harel. You know how to work with the Inquisition.” She exhales. “I’m sorry. But… consider it. Or I might have to go on my own, and it’d be no fun without you.” She grins at him, then passes him a roll of parchment, and he takes it warily. She’s leaving before he can say anything more.

He unrolls it, and his heart stops. He’d foolishly thought that perhaps a messenger, or a scribe… No. Gal was always uncomfortable with being served in ways he deemed unnecessary. Dorian touches that familiar, Chantry-neat handwriting that addresses him as _Magister Pavus_ and gives him _regards_. Not _yours,_ or _waiting eagerly for your return._ He runs his fingers over the lettering, reads the letter twice, and then tosses it aside.

He shouldn’t -

It would be foolish -

He’d have to be a masochist -

“Mae,” he calls, sighing, “do you still have that remedy for seasickness?”

 


	3. where we were

 

 

Gal expected Sera to leave after bollocking him, and she does - but then a few months later, she comes back. People keep talking about seeing a slip of an elf in the tavern and sneaking into the undercroft, and soon afterwards he looks up to see her sitting on the edge of his desk, smirking at him. “So. Funny thing, right? Heard some messengers chatting about a letter to Fancypants.”

He glares back. “An official one. About the Venatori.”

She snorts. “Yeah, pull the other one.”

He frowns down at his correspondence, and when he looks up, she’s gone. 

But she stays in Skyhold. He hears her laughter echoing round corners and none of his socks match anymore - and then she’ll sit next to him and prod him. It’s almost like the old days, before all this, but he’s used to another voice gently mocking him, too. Then a hand under his chin and _But it’s all in fun. I actually think you’re rather marvellous, you know._ A smiling mouth against his.

Fuck. He _can’t_ , not if Dorian’s going to be _here,_ going to be talking to him… He can’t think like this. He has to stop.

He has to.

He can’t.

 

 

 

Josephine is the next to come back, after a letter in swirling copperplate that tells him to meet her off the horse. She strides through the gates and smiles at him. “It is good to see you again, my friend.” 

He nods. “Same to you. But why - “ He pauses.

“I heard you were going to speak to the Lucerni. It seemed the Inquisition needed its liaison.”

The words he isn’t saying block his throat and weigh heavy on his chest, until he can’t keep them unsaid. “But the Inquisition’s gone.”

Her smile doesn’t shift; she just watches him, shrewd. “Not entirely. It is as gone as we wish it to be. And I thought, perhaps, you would need a friend.”

He tries to find the words and fails. Instead he hugs her.

She makes the smallest sound of surprise before wrapping her arms round him too, tightly, resting her head on his shoulder - even if she has to tiptoe to do it.

He manages, after a second too long, “Thank you.”

“Oh, Galahad,” she sighs.

She’s not the only one. “I fucked it up, didn’t I?”

“It’s far from that simple.” She draws back, and the light in her eyes almost makes him believe her.

He ducks his head, because he’s not sure he can look at her. “I…”

Putting a hand on his arm, she says, “Come, let us speak inside.” She’s too gentle. It nearly breaks him.

 

 

 

The call goes up the next day, and Gal nearly jumps from his desk. He feels like he’s going to be sick, but… he has to make himself slow down as he takes the stairs. This is a formality; Dorian’s probably stayed in Tevinter and sent a few of the Lucerni. Not like it matters. He asked for the party’s help, not -

His thoughts quiet as he rounds the corner and sees the group coming off the drawbridge.

He counts four mages, two men and two women, as they stride through the shadowed space under the portcullis. Three of them are in conversation; Gal catches the shape of gestures and the waving of robe sleeves, so it must be animated. The other…

Gal doesn’t recognise the man who strides into Skyhold like he owns it. Has to be a magister: he has a magical aura that could topple walls, he’s carrying an impressive staff, and he’s wearing black robes with enough embellishments that he should be jangling as he walks. Must be some kind of silencing charm. Gold chains and enchanted rings shine dully against dark silk - audacious for Ferelden but probably normal in Tevinter, from the stories Dorian used to tell him. The mage’s hair is long and immaculately coiffed, brushing his shoulders and falling into his face slightly, even with the proud tilt of his chin. There might be a beard - no, stubble; might be from the ride over. He’s pretending to be relaxed, but there’s a prowl in his step, that tightly coiled tension that’s almost familiar from when Gal had done something stupid and Dorian -

Gal’s heart stops in his chest. He takes a step forwards and realises he’s about to start craning his neck.

He looks again, as the mages step into the light. And he sees the green lining of the mage’s cloak, a flash of brightness against all the black. A familiar birthright, glinting gold in the afternoon sun. Storm-grey, kohl-lined eyes, looking round with recognition and something else, quickly hidden.

Those eyes meet Gal’s, and Gal… needs to run and ask Josephine to deal with this. Needs to stay. Needs to cross the courtyard and do something stupid. _At least he’s kept the moustache,_ Gal manages to think, stupidly.

Dorian’s face stays impassive, until one of the women, tall and blonde, leans to speak to him. Then something like frustration crosses his face. Gal catches the end of a conversation: Dorian sighing, “Must I?” and the woman saying something about him knowing this place better.

Then Dorian steps forwards and gives Gal a silent, assessing look. The afternoon sun casts shadows onto sharp cheekbones, throws a shine onto the jewellery and chain. He looks dangerous, like the kind of magisters the Chantry used to warn about, stinking of Tevinter nobility. He looks… good. Really good. The kind of good where Gal’s barely seen the outfit and already wants to peel him out of it. (Once, Dorian would have let him. Laughing and preening a little, giving smug commentary, eyes bright and watching his every move.)

Dorian’s face is still unreadable; he might as well be wearing a mask. But the tilt of his head says that Gal’s been assessed and found wanting. “Inquisitor.”

Gal tries not to think that Dorian hasn’t called him that - not in that level, cold tone - for years. And he tries not to think about how much he’s missed that voice. “Retired. Magister Pavus.”

Dorian nods, conceding that. “Ser Trevelyan.”

Still doesn’t sound right. _I remember when they disowned me,_ Gal thinks. _You saw the letter._ Gal drags his eyes away from Dorian and guesses, “Magister Tilani.”

She smiles, but there’s a cool edge to it. If Gal hadn’t met Dorian before, he’d wonder if all people from the Imperium were this… sharp. (No. He remembers Dorian smiling at letters. _Mae extends her well-wishes. And she says to do her a favour and ruin my hair, because she can’t ruffle it from across an ocean.)_ She says, “Ser Trevelyan. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She gestures to the others, and says, “These are Lucia and Marius.”

Gal nods to them. “It’s good to meet you.”

Lucia has the coolness right, but Marius looks slightly wide-eyed and gives an awkward nod back.

“You wanted to discuss your findings?” Dorian says, pulling Gal’s attention back to him.

Gal tries to regain his footing, hoping his thoughts don’t show on his face. “We should do that in the war room.” He moves to lead them.

Dorian’s only a step behind him, and unusually silent. Gal wants to turn and look at the stranger he knows. The man he love - loved.

The few people in Skyhold stare at the former Inquisitor leading a bunch of Tevinters through the castle. Gal doesn’t much care. They lived with one, they can live with four.

 

 

 

“It started with trouble on the outskirts of the Hinterlands, but it’s moved to the Storm Coast.” Gal touches the map. “Three incidents there, in the past couple of months.”

Dorian tilts his head, surveying the map with a hand to his mouth, and Gal remembers that first time, before Alexius: how surprised the war council had been when the sarcastic mage listened to their plan with an intense, quiet focus and then gave them the suggestion that probably saved Gal’s life. Suddenly Gal can see the politician who faces down Senates, and it makes his throat dry. 

Dorian says, “Do you remember the red templar base we raided?”

Yes.

_He remembers wiping out Venatori and templars with the roar of the sea in his ears and the hilt of his sword getting damp. He remembers creeping past a dragon and tensing at every clank of mail._

_He remembers afterwards, too. Remembers being lulled to sleep by the sound of the waves and then dreaming of walks in Ostwick by the sea, of his mother - He remembers waking so homesick he could hardly breathe, for a place and a time he’d hated, and then a quiet voice. “Amatus?”_

_He’d frozen. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”_

_“No, no, I wasn’t asleep.” A hand carrying a small magelight had entered the tent, then so had the rest of Dorian, as he ducked in almost sheepishly. Strange from a man who never apologised for himself. He sat next to Gal’s bedroll and continued, “Between the humidity and… well, the cold, I don’t know how anyone manages to shiver their way into the Fade. Unless they die, of course.” He paused. “What?”_

_Gal realised he was smiling, and only shook his head._

_Dorian peered at him from underneath hair that was almost dishevelled, by his usual standards. The rain and sea, probably. “You were mumbling. I took it to be either a very good or very bad dream. Either way, I was curious.”_

_Gal sighed. “Ostwick.”_

_Dorian’s “Ah,” was a soft, regretful inhale. “One of those dreams.”_

_“Are you still cold?” Gal asked. Changing the subject, he told himself._

_“Are you not?” was Dorian’s retort._

_With a snort, Gal lifted a corner of the blankets. He left the rest to Dorian. Just to conserve warmth. Even if he could do with the company._

_Dorian blinked at him, almost startled. And then at the blankets, his face turning thoughtful. After a moment, he crawled into Gal’s bedroll and slid under them, not looking surprised when Gal tucked the blankets round him and then got an arm round him and pulled him closer. “Better than a fur rug,” he muttered. “How do you do that?”_

_“It’s a gift,” Gal said, shrugging the shoulder that Dorian wasn’t on top of._

_Dorian sobered - it was quiet, sudden, the way he was sometimes - and then said, searching Gal’s face, “I take it you were in need of company?”_

_Gal nodded, and tried to find the words. “I… Stay with me?”_

_“For as long as you need me,” Dorian said, like it was simple._

Gal wonders when it stopped being a promise he could keep.

“Galahad?” Josephine says.

He almost startles. When did he lose his focus this badly? “I remember.” He feels that bright heaviness in the air, and it prickles up his spine: Dorian’s looking at him. He keeps his eyes on the war table and tries to clear his head. “It could be. Haven’t seen any movement in that region of the Coast, though. More… here.” He traces a finger past the river, by -

A hand wearing staff-gauntlets and enough rings to blind an Orlesian touches the map. “Here? They’re based in the cave?”

Gal looks at Dorian’s sleeve and pretends to be reading the map, not paying attention to those strong, precise movements. The old burn between thumb and forefinger that he knows is covered by the gauntlet. He says, “They kept trying to drag me into it enough.”

“It was a kidnapping attempt?” The tone of Dorian’s voice has changed; the casual disinterest is falling away even as he’s trying to cover it. If someone who didn’t know him as well was listening, it’d work. To everyone else, he probably sounds bored. To Gal, the anger is there, rising fast, and… something else.

“I think this one was,” Gal replies. (Dorian’s close enough Gal can almost feel him. Or maybe that’s just his mind playing tricks on him. No. Focus.)  “The others I’m not sure about.”

“Hm.” Dorian’s voice is distracted, like he’s found a problem and is already working on it. “Was this the first attempt?”

“I…” Gal stops.

The sharpness has come back into Dorian’s voice. “It wasn’t, was it?”

Gal looks up, into familiar eyes that are narrowed and watching him with irritation. Tries to find the words. “No. But it’s recent. There was only one before…”

Dorian raises an eyebrow. “A troop of Venatori emerge, apparently connected in some way to the Lucerni, who are trying to kidnap you, and you didn’t feel the need to mention this?”

“I asked for your help.”

”You didn’t mention they were attempting to drag you off to use you as leverage.”

“They weren’t, until recently. And you don’t know that.”

With a sharp bark of laughter, Dorian retorts, “Believe me, I know the Venatori far better than you do.”

Gal nods, conceding that, and scrapes his hand through his hair, using the excuse to look away. Dorian doesn’t even look like he’s affected; he has his mind on the mission, and Gal should be the same.

“But yes, of course, best not to mention that. It’s not as if being fully apprised of the situation would be useful.” Dorian sighs. “I take it you’re planning to investigate the Coast?”

Gal nods again. “I was going to take a party and go into the cave, see if we could find a base of operations. I just thought it was worth preparing better. Taking more soldiers.”

“Many of Cullen’s troops chose to stay, did they not?” Josephine asks.

It’s a relief to ignore Dorian, or try to. Gal says, “A few. More are drifting away every month.” Not much to stay for. For anyone.

Something crosses Dorian’s face at that, but it’s gone before Gal can tell what it is.

Josephine says, “Enough to send, say, twenty?”

“Enough for that.”

“You’ll need mages,” another voice chips in, and everyone looks to Magister Tilani. She tilts her head and raises a brow. “Unless you were just planning to beat them into submission.”

“He’s rather good at that,” Dorian comments, and Gal tries not to blink at him. It’s the kind of thing he would have said before, but… wrong, still with that sharpness in it. “I’m not as certain about the others.”

Gal doesn’t know how to respond, so he ignores it. “I was thinking five.”

Maevaris says, with the hint of a grin, “Marius, how do you feel about a field trip?”

Marius blinks, stepping into the light. He’s a magister, but he looks too young for it. “I… Yes. Certainly.”

“Don’t worry,” Dorian drawls, “I have some brown robes spare. Besides, you’ve killed more than enough Venatori. I have faith in you.” He’s gentler, speaking to some else. Less guarded. Gal remembers when that was for him, too; he wants to close his eyes against the wave of longing that hits him then.

“Not with the Inquisition,” Marius says, glancing at Gal.

“Oh, you’re not allowed to call them that anymore. Officially, they’re just a ragtag army hanging about in a castle. But I wouldn’t worry. They’re really very welcoming. Excellent parties.” Dorian looks to Gal, too, the wryness fading. “And us? Are we simply decoration?”

Gal swallows down what he might have said before. “We seized some of their orders. Pieces of manuscripts, some spellwork. We thought you’d know more than us.”

Dorian and Maevaris nod, and Dorian says matter-of-factly, “We would.”

“When do you want us to begin?” Maevaris asks. “After this meeting?”

Gal nods, and glances to Marius. “There’ll have to be a tactics discussion tomorrow, for the soldiers and the mages. But… yes. We’ve provided quarters.”

“I’ll be happy to show you to them,” Josephine says, stepping forwards.

Dorian inclines his head. “Thank you.” Then he looks past her and says, “The library still has a decent arcane knowledge section? Or has that gone with most of the mages?”

Gal says, too quietly, “It’s still here.”

Dorian hears it. Maybe he’s still used to the way Gal mumbles. “Good.”

Josephine begins to hustle them from the room, and Gal nods his thanks to her. She only smiles wanly.

Gal almost misses Dorian’s casual words. “Like the hair, by the way.” They still have an edge to them; they’re… wrong, somehow.

He turns, but Dorian and the others are already halfway down the corridor. He’s left watching that long, confident stride and the billow of robes. Even with everything else, Gal would know that walk anywhere. (He remembers a Chantry in Redcliffe. Remembers being surprised by how bravely the man carried himself. Wanting him, fiercely, from the start, even if he didn’t know what it was then.)

He looks downwards and realises his fist is clenched, white-knuckled. He exhales, trying to loosen it, and then closes the door, staring at the map until it blurs.

_This was a mistake,_ he thinks, and he doesn’t know whether he means inviting Dorian back or letting him leave in the first place.

No, that’s a lie. Both, everything, all of it; it was all a mistake. He should have used the crystal. He should have held on for all he was worth, and never let go.

It was easier before, when Dorian wasn’t right in front of him. When he could think that Dorian had forgotten about him and left him to rot. But he looked into those eyes and saw the anger in them - and he knows Dorian, so the anger’s there because of pain. Pain he’s caused.

He doesn’t know how much longer he can stop himself telling the truth he’s spent a year and a half trying to deny. _It wasn’t worth it. Any of it. It was never worth losing you._

He needs to talk to him. Not like it’ll be listened to - Dorian doesn’t seem to have much fondness left for him - but he needs to apologise, at least. He has to say something. Anything.

He should never have walked away.


	4. I love another, and thus I hate myself

The library is silent when Dorian climbs up the stairs. His steps echo off the stone, as do the low sounds of silk on silk - and in its strangeness, that makes him pause. Before, he’d almost never be here in full robes, and certainly not in these, which are half-ceremonial and weighed down with unnecessary nods to status. This was his place; somewhere that, for once in his life, he could be quiet. Some of the politicians he knows would burst into appalled laughter at the thought of him running about in leathers and trekking through swamps, but they don’t know the man who lived here, nor the man who fled from his ancestral home with nothing but the staff on his back.

He should go back to the others, perhaps offer them a proper tour, not the cheerful but no doubt sanitised one Josephine will be offering. _That’s where I mistimed a force spell experiment and nearly made a hasty exit through a wall, and Cremisius had to catch me while slagging off “bloody stupid aristos.” That’s where Josephine caught me making off with a 9:32 vintage and then drank half of it with me. That’s where Gal sang “Little Langdon’s Mabari” in front of half the troops for a bet and almost went puce. That’s where the cook asked me for a Qarinus stew recipe and made a sincere and very nearly edible attempt. That’s where Gal saddled my horse and kissed me goodbye before things went entirely to shit._

Instead, he stays.

He runs his hand over the spines in the Imperial History section. It feels familiar, like greeting an old friend, even if the silence is new. At least his fingers haven’t come away dusty, he thinks as he rubs them together; this place is still being used. Even so, he watches the dust motes dance in the sunlight through the windows, looks at the empty corner where Fiona and the researchers used to be, and thinks that he didn’t remember this place being quite so dark.

It’s strange, being here again. It can only have been, what, eighteen months? Perhaps more. And yet it feels like a lifetime.

Well, of course it does. Back then, most of his friends were here, and he’d only have to take a flight of stairs, if that, to see the man he…

Ah. With no-one to see him, he grimaces, as if he’s prodded an old wound. Which might be too close to the truth, actually. It certainly doesn’t feel like it’s healing. He knew it would hurt, all this, but he hadn’t quite expected… Seeing Gal felt as if someone had reached into his chest and attempted to tear his heart out. It still does. He wanted to turn and run, or blow something up. Or drink until he couldn’t see straight and sobriety was just a word said by fools.

No, none of that. He made himself come here. He’ll never get through this if he doesn’t put it neatly somewhere he doesn’t have to think about it, much like his father’s death and the years he spent attempting to drink himself into an early grave. But those memories are different. The pain is more obvious. Moreso than…

The mornings, he thinks, as he rounds the corner. Waking up with warm skin and drowsy laughter next to him, and marvelling at the bedhead of a semi-conscious barbarian. He remembers the sleepy affection and mumbled conversations and finally, with the world just about saved, having time for decent morning sex. And later the dreadful Fereldan food, the supposedly “hearty” - meaning grey - stews that he couldn’t bring himself to mind when his friends were laughing with him. Later still, those quiet, awkward attempts at Tevene cuisine from the kitchen staff. The way he’d groggily look up to find some young cook or other standing, looking expectant and hopeful at once, and he’d end up trying not to grimace too much and make encouraging noises, because _look at them, it’s hideous, it would be like kicking a mabari_ , a _nd I don’t even know where they found that recipe for garem…_

Frightening, that sort of belonging - how easy it is to accept it, and take it for granted. Frightening, how good it felt to have a man kiss him and say _I love you_ in front of anyone who could see them, uncaring of the whispers.

To have a man who promised him _more_.

He shakes away the thought and unclasps his cloak, throwing it over the back of his old armchair. Then he starts to browse the Chantry History shelf, trying not to close his eyes, to feel like it’s two years ago and he’s waiting for the quiet, clanking steps of a man in mail and -

“You were right.”

He carefully doesn’t freeze. Instead he says, “I beg your pardon?”

Gal’s exhale is a small thing, barely there in the echoing silence of the library. “I should have told you about the kidnapping attempts. I thought I’d rather explain in person. Didn’t want to imply an urgency that wasn’t there.” Still so soft-spoken, for such a large man; but then, it’s not as if he has anything to prove.

“No, no, Ser Trevelyan, I’m sure you knew best.” Dorian steels himself, and turns, sighing. “As I said, it’s not like intelligence is key.”

“I - “

“It’s not as if you could have disappeared from Thedas entirely and left an organisation scurrying around in your wake, wondering what happened to you.”

“I knew I could take the Venatori,” Gal says quietly. The tired way he rubs at his forehead belies the arrogance of his words.

“Yes, of course. The same way you could _take_ Solas,” Dorian snaps. “After all, who can stop the mighty Inquisitor when he’s determined to get himself killed?” The words are a snarl, too loud, and when the silence returns, it’s deafening.

It sounded too… everything. It sounded like he _cares._

Gal stares at him. Those eyes are still entirely too blue, too familiar, beneath the warpaint. This could almost be one of those arguments where Gal wanted to run into danger and they’d argue until a decision was made - or the mission came around, and one was forced - or they’d distract each other.

Dorian keeps his expression blank and his arms crossed, even as his heart is speeding; even as he tries not to remember the man who used to laugh against his mouth and fall into bed with him, the man who asked him to stay and promised him -

He’s had enough practice. He’s been not-thinking of such things since he arrived and saw this short-haired, hollow-eyed stranger who’d actually bothered to shave - and that alone told him Gal must have been dreading the meeting, dreading him.

He adds, more calmly, “Not that it’s any of my business, of course.” _You made sure of that._ “Some of us have more important things to worry about.” He adds, too casually, “The fall of the Imperium, for example.”

Gal looks at the shelves, the walls - anywhere but at him. “I know. That’s why I waited to tell you.”

Dorian barks a disbelieving laugh. “I see. So this is my fault.”

Gal frowns. “That’s not what I meant.”

That’s only worth ignoring. Dorian sighs. “Why are you here, Herald?”

Gal sounds frustrated when he says, “The others wanted to see you. They’ve started discussing the findings from the Venatori camp.”

“Right, yes. Of course.” He waves a hand and wonders when he started sounding like an exhausted magister. No - he wonders when he started sounding like his father. “I’ll be right with you.”

He gathers himself, assumes the stonefacedness one should expect from a representative of the Lucerni, and then follows Gal out of the room. He feels every inch of the space between them, and Gal still won’t look at him.

The opposite problem to Mae’s, he thinks later, in the mages’ tower. Gal and Josephine, even Lucia, are intent on the scraps of parchment and half-torn diagrams, but Maevaris… She keeps glancing at him, and if he didn’t know her better, it would look casual. But he _does_ know her better, so he knows that she’s worried about him. Even while she’s running a hand over the parchments and unbinding minor wards - _Did they really think this would keep anyone out?_ \- she has half an eye on him.

He wouldn’t mind so much if it was general worry, the sort she’d expressed on the journey over. Instead, this feels far too much like she’s saying, _You’re going to do something stupid, aren’t you?_ He knows that look. It was the same look she wore when he was about to hop the wall in his second Circle and run for the nearest red-lantern district.

She’s wrong, of course. He knows how to keep his distance, even if she’s always accused him of wearing his heart on his sleeve.

He frowns down at one of the diagrams, pulling it closer. Not a diagram - a _map._ He snorts, shaking his head. “Half of this is complaining about the weather - _mal, mal, mal -_ but I know this place. They’re saying it’s where they’re storing the red lyrium for their little enterprise.” He feels the silence and the others’ eyes on him, but he traces the cliffs and throws a little magic into his touch, a basic prodding of barriers. The ink spreads, changes. “Is this part of why you weren’t content to say they were only in the Storm Coast?” He looks up and addresses the question to Josephine, but he hears mail and leather as someone steps closer. “I suppose this could have passed for Long River, but this is… See for yourself.” He moves it to the centre of the table with an unnecessary flourish, and he pretends it’s not partly so Gal won’t have to lean over him.

Gal says quietly, “It’s a stream off Lake Lothias.” He inhales. “We didn’t have the countercharms to…”

“What, no convenient Tevene rejects running about? Couldn’t you have taken a few of the Venatori captive?”

“They tended to die,” Gal replies flatly. “Usually had a few blood wards laid out in case of capture.”

Dorian tries not to let his frustration through. “And the work I left you on this specific topic? My own countercharms and dispels?”

“They’ve created new forms. Spells I’ve never seen before. This isn’t like before, when we had an entire Inquisition and the Redcliffe mages at our back to research. They’ve been careful to cover their tracks.”

Maevaris laughs at that and says, “I never thought anyone would call the Venatori _thorough._ But perhaps this group is different. _”_

“Or luckier.” Gal ducks his head, frustration in the line of those broad shoulders. “We’ve never managed to take them unawares.” He must see Dorian’s appalled look, for he adds, “Blame lack of numbers and other priorities. We were focused on the remaining rifts, and we thought these were just stragglers. We were wrong.” He looks back to the map.

Dorian sighs. “I’m missing the days when you had a decent commander. But I suppose he’s off house-training ex-templars.” From the letters he’s received, that seems to be the case. _One of them knew the Herald,_ Cullen had said. _She writes to him, on occasion._ He’s not sure whether to mentally congratulate Cullen for getting out of this mess or go and drag him back by that hideous fur ruff. He crosses his arms and straightens his spine. “So, what are you planning to do?”

“We need to take a separate team back to the Hinterlands…” Gal pauses. “But we need good barriers. If they’re handling the red lyrium, we can’t let them only do it with armour. We need mages.” He runs a hand through his hair. “We haven’t got many, these days.” He closes his eyes. “We have to get rid of the lyrium. I’ll speak to the troops. Tell them we’re changing plans.”

“I’ll accompany you,” Josephine hastens to add, and she glances at Dorian with a flash of something like empathy.

Then Gal’s leaving, and Dorian’s trying not to think that the room suddenly feels… emptier.

“I should have offered to help,” Lucia says, sounding bitter. “Here I’m only going to be a paperweight.”

Dorian half-grins at her. “I spent half of the campaign against Corypheus as one. Surprising, how many useful things you can find when you’re stuck to a desk.”

She tries to smile, and fails.

“He’ll drag you out eventually. He always likes to see what a decent mage can do.” He shifts more of the papers, piling them up next to him. “That goes double if they’re from the dread Imperium. I’d brush up on your pyromancy, if I were you.” Not that she needs it. She’s one of the best she’s seen, probably far better with fire than he is.

“Dorian…” Maevaris starts.

He shakes his head. “I know. We have work to do.”

And work he does. But no more revelations are forthcoming, even when they untease a few wards and charms he’s never encountered in the wild before. Old Tevene. How very traditional. And snotty. 

He finds letters home and other such uselessness, with no names he knows; herb lists and cookery, of all things; an artistic sketch of a tree. None of them seem coded, or useful, though he puts them aside just in case. He wonders why they even bothered; perhaps they do all this as a matter of course, like a self-conscious teenager with a first diary.

The hours pass, and he finds himself with a headache and too many distractions, but no useful information. Eventually he admits defeat, and journeys groggily from the tower with a wave and some muttered cursing. 

He looks up when the echoes of his footsteps change. A certain kind of stone, a lower ceiling. He realises his feet have led him to his old quarters.

Perhaps he was given new ones. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care. He locks the door behind him and barely bothers undressing before he falls onto the bed.

He tries not to see Gal’s sad eyes every time he blinks, tries not to think at all - but there’s a hum under his skin, and he drowsily raises his hand, quite without meaning to…

The old enchantments flare to life. The annotations in light next to empty shelves, the small reminders floating in the air in his own handwriting: _Take an extra shirt. The Mire,_ he reads, next to the armoire. And an addition, in a familiar, Chantry-neat hand: _Warmth wax for Dorian’s boots._ He’d shown Gal how to tap into the spell, taken his hand as he’d written. To channel energy, he explained, but that wasn’t entirely the truth.

He looks up and sees the hastily-drawn maps hovering on the ceiling, the names in Tevene next to the old Arcanum and Common ones because Gal wanted to learn, always wanted to know…

_“How many languages do you know?” he’d asked, in mounting amusement, one of those semi-rare nights Gal had ended up in his bed rather than the other way round, after one of those labyrinthine middle-of-the-night conversations. It had been surprising how enjoyable they were, and how many they could have, now neither one of them had to wake up early and rush out on missions at the crack of dawn._

_Gal looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. “Common,” he said, as if that wasn’t obvious. Wryly, after a pause: “Orlesian.”_

_Dorian knew his cue when he heard it, and said flatly, “I’m appalled.”_

_“Did you not see my name?” Gal said, with one of those white-toothed, slightly silly grins. “Besides, most nobles know some. You do.”_

_“Well yes, but that’s because we aren’t all barbarians and some of us need to trade.” It was an old game to slip into, the insults, all fond._

_“And some of us had an Orlesian grandmother.”_

_Dorian blinked and turned his head, watching the spell-light reflect in Gal’s eyes. “Now that I didn’t know.”_

_“Never met her. She died soon after I was born. My mother didn’t like talking about her much.” Gal shrugged. “But she picked up the language from her, she always said. Made sure I got some of it.” He exhaled, and looked Dorian in the eye. “My Antivan’s a little rusty, but Josephine lets me practice. And the only Tevene phrases I know are curses.”_

_Dorian couldn’t help laughing at that. “It seems I’m a bad influence.”_

_Gal just smiled back. “True.” A thoughtful look appeared on his face. “But there’s… there’s one other word I know.”_

_“Oh?”_

_Gal leaned across and said softly, into Dorian’s ear, “Amatus.”_

_Dorian’s laughter returned, because he knew full well he wasn’t being mocked. He took Gal’s arm and said, “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”_

_Gal just looked at him like he was something… rare. Precious, perhaps. All startled delight. “I told you, I like it. It’s a good word.” Then the affection was replaced by something fiendish. He leaned across again and repeated, “Amatus.” He said it as if savouring it, smiling against Dorian’s cheek and ignoring the fact that both of them dearly needed a shave. He pressed his nose to Dorian’s neck. “I love you,” he said, with a hint of that low, delighted laughter. And then he said it again, with a kiss to Dorian’s shoulder - and then again, ignoring Dorian calling him an “utter sap” and proceeding to say it through laughter until Dorian had to shut him up and they were both thoroughly distracted._

Dorian stares at the ceiling - at the remnants of a life he’d thought was his - until the words begin to blur. He should have unmade the spells before he left, but… he thought he’d be coming back, once. 

He glares at his own stupidity, extinguishes it all with a snap of his fingers, and tries to sleep.

He wakes too soon, freezing. He’d forgotten how bloody cold it was down south. He reaches down the bed, out of habit more than anything… and pauses, raising his head from the pillow to look again. He stares at the furs and extra blankets, neatly folded at the foot of his bed - more than the servants used to give, and Gal had always sneaked a few more in because _You’re shivering, Dorian,_ putting them away in the mornings with that silent, Chantry-raised scrupulousness while Dorian was still trying to stagger to the privy and not break his neck - and then he grabs them. He shoves them over himself without ceremony, trying not to think about any of it, or about the new spellweaving candles laid on his old desk. The servants, no doubt.  

He slides into the Fade mostly warm and trying to curl around someone who isn’t there. The same as usual.


	5. like a man possessed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter: two steps forwards, one step back, and Bad Life Choices. The stuff near the end of this chapter isn’t full-blown smut, but I can’t call it safe for work either, so be warned.

 

Gal walks out of a meeting and knows he should be thinking about  _three days’ time_ and scouting the area and battle preparations. Instead he’s thinking of sharp grey eyes and muttered words, and the fact he watched three years of love and friendship destroyed by a few minutes of stupidity. His stupidity. His fault.

The fresh air helps slightly; it makes him feel less trapped. He tries to breathe as he heads down the steps, to  _think._ He’s been trying to find the time to speak to Dorian, but - that’s an excuse. He knows when he’s being a bloody coward. It’s not like his pride is more important than the truth. He expects to be sent out on his ear, but… Dorian ought to know.

“Oi, why didn’t you  _say_ you were back?” Sera’s voice rings out in the courtyard below, and Gal turns his head before he can help himself, spotting her sprinting towards a dark-robed figure.

Dorian says, “I knew you’d find me eventually. Much as I was trying to run for it.” Dorian sounds… happy. The happiest he’s been since he came back. He sounds like he used to before Gal fucked this all up.

Gal should walk on. He doesn’t. He stops and stares when Dorian makes a small, startled “oof” at having an armful of elf and then… hugs back, briefly and carefully. Dorian’s always been slightly awkward about it, always surprised; not something Tevinter nobility does much.  _Too easy to stab someone in the back while you’re at it,_ he always said. But he puts his whole heart into it when he does, like he’s been saving it all up.

She steps back and gives Dorian a good punch on the arm. “What’s with all the shiny shite?” Sera says, waving a hand at Dorian’s robes.

It’s only when Gal hears that rich, wry laughter, not the derisive humourless version from the war room, that he realises how much he’s missed it. “That’s what I said. The Magisterium likes me to put on a show.”

“Yeah yeah. That’s not even a good excuse. You’re always showy.”

They fall into that casual, meandering stroll as they walk into the Herald’s Rest, the one that Gal remembers from old missions when they had nothing to do but walk, and talk, and take the piss out of each other.

Fuck, he misses those days. It’s an ache, sometimes, and now it’s sharp. He clenches his fist and waits for the hum of the Mark - and then realises, all over again.

He starts moving, then, with the sound of that warm, proper laughter behind him. He’s heard enough. Not like he can fix this, but he has to do… something. Anything.

He ducks his head and heads round the corner to the kitchens, as quietly as he can, trying not to think about the fact he’s walking away from his friends.

 

 

He and Gal manage to thoroughly avoid each other until the meeting the next day about raiding the potential base.  They meet with Maevaris, Marius, Lucia, Josephine and the troops. He tries not to let Maevaris' subtle, concerned looks and the silence of Skyhold, how very  _empty_ it seems, bother him. He's become even more aware of it since he met Sera again and sat in a half-deserted tavern.

“Once the scouts have come back, I'll go in first and clear a path for you,” Gal says to Marius. He nods to the troops. “Marianne, Gardiner, you're with me.” To their companions, he says, “You two hang back.”

“Marius, you remember that particular litany?” Dorian adds.

Marius nods, swallowing.

“Good.” Dorian looks back to Gal, and then to the troops. “It should help to lessen the effects of the red lyrium. Though he'll need it most of all. If you're a mage, it feels like getting kicked by a horse.” Meeting Gal's eyes, he says, “He's a strong barrier mage. You'll be all right with him, he can cover all of you.”

Gal nods. “Then we spread out.”

“You want distractions to draw them out, especially the assassin types,” Dorian says.

Another nod, and the corner of Gal's mouth ticks up slightly.

“Marius has a few spells that might. Smoke grenades, as a last resort?”

He looks to the scouts, who nod, too. One says, “We've got flashier stuff we can pull out first.”

“Excellent,” Mae announces, clapping her hands together slightly. “Always best to make them soil their drawers before you're even on the scene.”

“Couldn't agree more,” Gal says, with a swift half-grin.

It's almost easy, after that – except that when the others are leaving, and he's about to join them, he sees Gal staying, leaning on the war table and looking suddenly, frightfully tired. The silence settles again, then, and he remembers. He's beginning to think he might go insane if he doesn't say something.

He says, “I have a question. Indulge me, if you will?”

Gal nods, looking wary.

“Why are you still here?”

Gal frowns.

“All of us have gone on to pastures new. Even Sera and Josephine are only here temporarily. And the rifts are closed. You made sure -  _we_ made sure - of that. And don’t give me something about the Venatori. You didn’t have to deal with them personally. They’re a matter for the remaining troops. This place is looking remarkably empty… except for you.”

Swallowing, Gal says, “I was needed here.”

“The lonely man sitting in his castle and watching himself rot. Yes, it’s like some sort of terrible old tale. Is that what you think you are, the tragic hero of some myth?” Dorian snorts. “And that’ll make you feel better, will it? When you’re old and your hair’s falling out and the last of them have left you behind?”

“Sounds familiar,” Gal says, and glares back.

“What, making yourself miserable for duty?” Dorian snaps. And then it hits him. He looks away, unable to stand the weight of that steady blue gaze. He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Yes, rank hypocrisy. You’re right, I truly have become a magister.”

Gal goes still, and asks quietly, “Miserable?”

“No, you don't get to pretend you care.  What was it, two letters? Three? Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.” He laughs and the sound is brutal, humourless. “While you sit here playing the idle king, because it's not as if  _the mighty Herald of Andraste_ needs friends, now they can no longer be useful to him.”

“I told you not to call me that,” Gal grits out.

“It's been so long since we last spoke that I'd forgotten. My apologies, Ser Trevelyan.” He even manages to make an incline of his head sarcastic. “Though you could at least have written to tell me that the Venatori had tried to kidnap you  _three bloody times._ ”

“You were busy.”

“ _Please,”_ he scoffs. _“_ Don't pretend this is my fault.”

“I didn't mean it like that.” Gal hisses a breath through his teeth, rubs a hand over his forehead. Good. Dorian thought if he had to look at any more of that Chantry calm he'd scream. “This was mine to solve. You  _knew_ that. I fucked this up, I'll deal with it.”

“Yes, because you're doing such a good job of that. I suppose that was why you finally wrote? You decided you'd screwed this all up beyond repair and you wanted me to pick up the pieces for you?”

“It was never about - I didn't know it would be you. Didn't know you'd come yourself. You think I had a choice?” He blinks, looks away and grits his teeth, as if he's said too much. “I didn't want to worry you,” he adds, more quietly.

Dorian strides around the war table, because he needs Gal to  _look_ at him, not through him or at a point somewhere over his left ear. “What, you thought that if you wrote to me and said the Venatori were becoming an issue again, I could just sit in Senate meetings picking out new amulets and ignore it? And now, let me guess, you want me to just disappear back to where I came from, like any other inconvenience?”

Gal's face twists. “Is that really what you think of me?”

Dorian won't, can't, answer that. “Tell me, then: what  _do_ you want?”

“I...” Gal truly meets his eye, then, and freezes, seems to lose the words. The slightest pink begins to creep into his ears, onto his cheeks underneath the tattoos.

Dorian almost wonders what this new, unfamiliar thing is, and why something in him recognises it – then he knows. He hasn't seen this since he came back, but before... plenty of times. He realises belatedly just how close they've become during this conversation, and he finds himself glancing to Gal's mouth, something shivering down his spine, before he drags his gaze away.

Just his mind playing tricks on him, and the memories of too many arguments ending in Gal's quarters. Things are different now.

Gal looks away, swallowing, and it seems to take effort. “Why did you come back?” he asks, addressing the stone floor.

And there's the question. Off-balance as he already feels, it takes the wind out of Dorian's sails. Sighing, he makes the unwise decision to answer honestly. “Because no matter what's happened between us, I'd rather the Venatori didn't put your head on a pike.”

Gal stares at him, and opens his mouth -

“But we're obviously not getting anywhere here,” Dorian says, suddenly needing to be somewhere, anywhere else.

“Dorian...”

He shakes his head and walks away, trying not to wonder how much he'll regret it later.

 

 

Gal listens to the door shut and tries not to stare at the space where Dorian was.

For a second he thought – No. No, that was wishful thinking. Had to have been. But he thinks of  _no matter what's happened between u_ _s_ and the decencyin it, and can't make himself move. He has to say something, and not let himself get distracted by Dorian's bait. He used to be good at that, once.

He runs a hand through his hair and breathes out, putting the words together in his head.

He makes it a couple of hours before he ends up climbing the stairs to the library, pausing when he sees Dorian looking through one of the sections. The place is the same, and Dorian's bearing is the same, but Gal still doesn't recognise these clothes. They're not the old, comfortable leathers, grander than that, and Gal can't help remembering that before, Dorian had left most of his family riches back in Tevinter. Even after Corypheus, he'd made few moves to recover anything that wasn't of sentimental value; he probably thought that he'd be heading back soon anyway. Gal thinks again that the man in front of him looks like the Pavus heir that's been overturning the Magisterium. An intimidating noble he'd be wary of on a first meeting.  _A proper sniffy Tevinter,_ Sera might say. Only his eyes say differently.

Dorian's obviously heard him coming; he goes still, turns his head slightly, but doesn't look at him and keeps running his hands along the shelves.

“I know it won’t make any difference,” Gal starts, stepping forwards before thinking better of it, “but… I’m sorry. So sorry.”

“For what?” Now Dorian turns. The look he gives is flat, but the caged fear and anger are in his eyes, behind the facade. “Other than the truly underwhelming selection of Imperial History. I’d forgotten how behind the South was.”

Gal doesn’t rise to the bait. He pauses, thinking his words through and trying to choose them carefully, but they come out in a rush, and he stumbles. “For… the last time we spoke, before... At Halamshiral. The way I treated you. I was an idiot. About everything. And what I said… It wasn’t true. I didn’t mean it, any of it. Shouldn't have said it.”

Dorian goes back to looking over the bookshelves. “What was it? It’s been some time; my memory is a little vague. Most of my time here was rather a blur, between the drinking and the not-dying. I think there might have been a decent fuck or two but honestly, I don’t recall.”

Gal tenses. “You’re lying,” he says quietly, trying not to let the hurt and the anger through.

“Yes, well.” Dorian’s voice is that terrible false-airiness he wears when he’s furious. “You’re right.” He turns, and looks Gal in the eye. “This won’t make any difference.”

Gal nods, trying not to look like he's been kicked in the chest. Fuck. He used to be so much better at this, before Dorian changed it all; when they first met, he'd see Dorian try and work him out, but later, it didn't even seem to take effort. “Fair enough.” It is. He didn’t expect anything else.

“I'm glad we're clear on that,” Dorian says, and then he looks back to his books.

Gal turns and leaves, too afraid his face might betray him.

 

 

The silence is back again. Dorian notices it as he climbs down the library stairs, and he thinks that even now night has fallen and it's far past a reasonable hour, there were always a few malingerers and at least a couple of drunk troops. It's almost... eerie. It's a relief to see the flash of green and hideous mustard-yellow. It's odd: the troops he passes blink at the odd Tevinter, but they see his face and relax again. Perhaps he still is remembered in some way here after all.

He nods to them, trying not to remember  _I didn't mean it. Any of it,_ and that strange moment in the war room, and Gal's pale face the first time they met again, - the way Gal had looked at him like he wasn't sure whether he wanted to run or...  _To_ _kiss you and possibly_ _tear your clothes off with his teeth,_ something at the back of his mind had thought, but he'd chalked it up to a misinterpretation, and it wasn't as if that made sense, after the mess at Halamshiral.

He keeps walking, his throat oddly dry, and it's only when he's closing the door and ascending another set of stairs, his steps quiet and deliberate the way he always used to keep them, that he knows where he's going. He thinks bitterly that it makes sense. He has to get this out of his system somehow.

He reaches the top of the staircase and knocks on the door.

After a moment it opens. Gal stares at him, but then opens the door without hesitation, stepping back, and Dorian's unsure whether to be dismayed or... well. Either way, he steps through and shuts it carefully behind him, unable to take his eyes off Gal.

“Why are you here?” Gal asks, still looking wary - and Dorian thinks that there’s something terribly wrong about that; he never wanted to be a person who made Gal afraid, in any circumstances. The firelight makes Gal’s eyes shine, casts shadows onto his cheekbones, and for a moment, with the tired paleness warmed and the harshly cut hair less obvious, he’s the man Dorian remembers. They could so easily have come back from a training session, or he could have sneaked into the mighty Inquisitor’s room to give him some comfort after a long day. It’s only the tension in Gal’s shoulders and the air between them that betrays that lie.

He considers that, though his spine is prickling and nothing about his decision seems to have involved rational thought. “Good question. I wish I had an answer.”

“Dorian…” Gal’s voice is low, rough.

“All told, I probably shouldn’t be.” Dorian takes a step closer, another, until there’s only half a foot between them, at most. He tilts his head and listens to Gal’s sharp inhale. “And yet, here I am.”

Gal’s eyes are bright and just a little wide. Yes, now he understands. “Here you are.” His voice is hesitant, but his entire body is tilted towards Dorian, and his eyes are darkening. Dorian knows that look, and he feels it in his bones.

“This is a terrible idea,” Dorian says matter-of-factly as he steps forwards, watching Gal watch him. “I just needed you to know that.”

Gal only stares, and then licks his lips, a quiet, nervous thing, and tilts his head. An invitation by any other name.

Dorian leans in until their noses touch. He feels the shaky breath against his mouth. The brush of lips against his, the briefest scrape of stubble, as if Gal couldn’t help himself. Gal moves back, and then -

\- and then he reaches out and he doesn’t know who closes the gap but they’re colliding, kissing desperately, swaying with the force of it. Gal makes a low, broken-sounding noise in the back of his throat, and it makes Dorian pull him closer, hands clenching in his sleeves, the world around them fleeing in the wake of that hot, familiar mouth and the warm muscle flexing under his fingers, and Maker, he  _knows_ this, knows it better than his own heartbeat, and it might be the only thing in about two years that has made sense.

Gal’s back hits the bookcase, and it’s only then that Dorian realises they’ve been moving. Gal doesn’t even pause, getting his arm round Dorian’s shoulders and gathering him closer until Dorian’s pressed against a wall of strong Marcher and all he can feel is Gal. It’s familiar, it’s  _right,_ it’s… almost too much, after so long without, and yet not enough. He closes his eyes and savours it all, wondering if he could cast some sort of spell, wrap time around his little finger and save this. He nips at Gal’s bottom lip because it always gets that lovely little  _sound,_ the one Gal never seems to even realise he’s making…

Gal’s hand cups Dorian’s face, touches his cheek, as if trying to relearn him, and then slides into his hair, and… stops.

It’s a brief thing, that surprised little pause, but it’s enough. Dorian draws back. He says, trying for businesslike but too breathless, “Problem?”

Gal says, “I’m just… Still not used to it. Being longer.” He blinks as if coming back to himself, the sadness starting to settle over him again. “It looks good.”

Dorian kisses him again as an excuse not to see the look on his face, and Gal seems to lose the last of any reservations. The kiss is hot and half-brutal. Gal seems drunk on it, trying to get Dorian closer. Dorian presses a thigh between his and leans forwards, until he gets a ragged gasp that always brings some smug satisfaction, and Gal's head falls back against the bookcase. The mighty Inquisitor, saviour of Thedas, at his mercy.

He hears something, low and... familiar. “What?” he murmurs.

Gal says, still laughing slightly, “Could feel you smirking.”

He should be angry that the man who broke his heart is laughing at him, is presuming so much, is -

“I assure you you’re mistaken,” he says, pulling back to look Gal in the eye.

The air… changes. Gal pauses and stares at him, still breathing heavily. Then he rests their foreheads together, rubbing his thumb over Dorian’s cheek. He presses a brief, gentle kiss to Dorian’s mouth, and then another, something disbelieving in it, before pausing, drawing back and searching Dorian’s face, hand cradling his chin. It’s that same tenderness that was always there in quieter moments between battles, or when Gal was glad to see him again after he’d returned; or that very first time, Gal gently saying _,_ _You have somewhere else to be? We can do this slowly_ , and Dorian feels his eyes sting -

No.

Instead of thinking about that, he pulls Gal into a deeper kiss, licking hard and filthy into Gal’s mouth before he withdraws. Gal makes a low noise of protest and tries to chase the kiss. Dorian ignores that and moves to mouth at that pale throat, careful not to leave a mark. This isn’t like the days before, when everyone knew what he was doing in Gal’s quarters and Gal would emerge from sessions of “paperwork and leisure” with a foolish grin on his face…

No, no, no, no. He needs to put all that out of his mind, or this will never happen. 

He feels Gal reach out and feel along his chest before starting to unbuckle his robes, untying knots - slower, now, doing it one-handed, but it has the feel of memory. He’s selfishly glad that lesson hasn’t been unlearned. Maker, the time he spent teaching Gal to navigate Tevinter fashions, laughing at the man’s consternation, because  _amatus, those are only spurs, even you know what they’re for._ He remembers, too, the way Gal had paused and said, with the hint of a smirk,  _Why, what were you planning on riding?_ and then laughed at his rather eloquent raised eyebrow.

The  _flump_ of his robes hitting the floor pulls him out of his reverie. It leaves him in an undershirt and breeches. (Far too subtle for a magister to be seen in. Precisely the sort of thing he used to wear lazing in this very room, waiting for the Inquisitor to return.)

For a moment they still, watching each other, too aware of a line to be crossed -

Then Gal’s moving like a man possessed, tugging at the laces of the high-collared Tevinter shirt with trembling fingers, still pressing kisses against Dorian's neck and jaw like he can't bear to tear himself away. The moment it falls open, he slides his hand underneath it and touches Dorian’s chest, palm to his heart - which might be racing. Dorian inhales sharply, unable to help himself. Then Gal’s drawing back, tugging at the shirt, and Dorian’s shrugging it off. It falls to crumple with the robes.

Dorian presses forwards, lifting Gal’s shirt over his head and throwing it aside, then he can’t help himself: he’s reaching out, too, to run his hand over scars familiar and new, spreading his fingers and feeling muscle and barely restrained power… until he reaches Gal’s left arm, and feels Gal tense.

“Does it…” Gal swallows. “This going to be a problem?”

Dorian shakes his head and keeps his hand where it is, gently running it over the scarred stump where Gal’s forearm used to be. “It wasn’t before. Why should it be now?” He reaches Gal’s shoulder and then keeps moving upwards, threading his hand into Gal’s hair.

Gal looks wary. “You left before.”

“Not because of this,” Dorian says firmly, and then presses them together.

They both inhale sharply at the feel of skin on skin, and Gal grips Dorian’s belt, trying to get him closer still. “Dorian…”

“Gal,” he returns, and he realises too late that it wasn’t  _Inquisitor_   _or Ser Trevelyan_ as he feels the shudder against him, the shaky way Gal inhales.

Gal gently shoulders him backwards and then half-kneels, starting to unlace his boots, swiftly unpicking knots with that surprising warrior's dexterity.

Dorian closes his eyes and realises a moment too late that he’s absentmindedly running a hand through Gal’s hair. It’s an affectionate touch, with too much familiarity. He swiftly takes back his hand and says, “You’re right.”

“Mm?”

“It is odd, the hair situation. Why did you cut it?”

Gal shrugs, and Dorian tries not to watch the play of muscle, that pale skin gold in the firelight. “Wanted to try and change. Not sure how well I succeeded.” Gal pushes at Dorian’s leg, gently.

Dorian obediently lifts it, then the other, and watches as first one boot, then the other is tossed aside. “You don’t miss it? I… almost do.” There’s no  _almost_ about it.

That understated shrug. “There are a lot of things I miss.” Gal presses a kiss to Dorian’s thigh through the leather, lingering there, simply breathing.

Dorian wants to pretend it’s surprise and the sensation that makes him fall back against the wall, his eyes closing. Not the tenderness of it, the familiarity; not how much he’s missed this,  _Maker he’s missed this,_ he thought he’d never have it again – He realises that this isn't the fast, angry thing he came here for. He can feel control fraying round the edges, every breath becoming a shuddering, gasping thing. He used to be so  _good_ at this - playing amused, unruffled, always distant no matter what his body was doing - but no longer. Perhaps with anyone else, it would be different. If this wasn’t the man who’d seen through the act and asked him to  _Talk to me, please, I want to hear you_ and taken his hand in the middle of it all; if this wasn’t the man who’d seen him at his lowest and then asked for  _more._

Another of those swift kisses, another, and then Dorian touches Gal’s head, urges him to stand before that mouth can get anywhere too interesting; it’s been too long since he’s done something like this, and if Gal can watch him, catalog his responses… Gal frowns at him, questioning. Dorian just slides his hand down to cup Gal's face, and Gal looks up at him, eyes wide and bright in the firelight. Gal rises and Dorian surges to meet him, kissing him rather than saying something stupid.

He’s leading them towards the bed by instinct before he can think too much, coaxing Gal backwards kiss by kiss, until they have to break apart or tip over. They pick the latter.

He reaches out and puts a hand to Gal’s chest, the lightest of touches - and Gal looks him in the eye and falls back, hitting the mattress with a bounce. Dorian pauses a moment, standing there at the foot of the bed, and Gal -

Gal just lounges there and smiles at him with that affectionate, slightly filthy amusement, looking like himself for the first time since they’ve met again. So obviously waiting for him. The sight should be ridiculous, but it grabs at something in Dorian instead, makes him lose the last vestiges of uncertainty. He walks around the ridiculously large bed he's always so admired, and idly touches his hand to the tattoo on Gal's hip, slipping his fingers under Gal's waistband and watching the tensing of muscle, the shiver that follows his touch.

A strong, calloused hand wraps around his and extracts it, before sliding to his arm and tugging gently. He takes the hint, letting himself be pulled down over Gal until they’re face-to-face. Gal’s still smiling at him, and he feels an echo of it on his own face, too.

“Dorian,” Gal says, his eyes softening. He’s got that look in his eyes, the one he got when he was going to say it. “I…” Please, let him say it. “I’ve missed you,” is what he says instead, and it's almost enough.

Dorian leans down and breathes into his ear, “Why don't you show me how much?”

Gal’s always enjoyed a challenge, after all.

 

 

Dorian wakes warm and comfortable, except for the pleasant ache in his muscles that tells him that last night was a very good one indeed. There’s something heavy across his middle, and he realises after a moment that it’s an arm. Gal’s arm, to be precise.

And suddenly he remembers last night.

He wants to smile at the thought, perhaps try for another round - and then he remembers the months in between, and what happened after the Exalted Council, and…all of it.

He climbs out of that ridiculously comfortable Marches bed and grabs his breeches, shoving them on with hands he wants to pretend aren’t trembling, desperately reaching for his boots, trying to be quiet -

“Dorian?” Gal mumbles.

He closes his eyes for a moment, a shiver running up his spine. He’d forgotten how it felt to have his name said warm and sleep-rough. Then he pulls on his boots and starts lacing them, wondering why he can’t seem to get his hands to work properly. He needs to leave, before he can make any more stupid decisions.

Gal says, sounding more awake, “You don’t have to leave.”

“Yes,” he says, through gritted teeth, “I do. I told you, this was a terrible idea.” He ties a rough, lopsided knot on each boot, unable to care. Then he reaches for his shirt.

“Didn’t feel terrible to me.” Gal swallows, the sound loud in the silence. “Dorian, I…”

“Don’t.” He moves on to his bracers, buckling them quickly.

“We should talk about this.”

Dorian snorts. “Why? It’s not like it meant anything. These things happen.”

“It meant something to me.”

He doesn’t respond, hastily tying back his hair. He tries not to remember too many times lying and watching Gal doing the same before one or both of them had to head off to a meeting, the sun slanting through the windows just like this; too many lazy mornings reading while Gal headed off to check on the troops or to meditate, or even better, when he could steal Gal for himself, pull him back and distract him...

But that was before his father died and Gal put an ocean between them.

Maker, what has he done? How could he ever have thought this was a good idea? He needs to go, and then he needs to get the sort of drunk where he’ll wake up on a floor somewhere, today obliterated. Yes. That should do it.

Gal says quietly, “You called me  _amatus.”_

He freezes, and hopes he isn't shaking. “Force of habit.  Don't worry, it won’t happen again.”

He hears the shift of sheets, and he makes the mistake of looking back. Gal’s sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him with wide blue eyes, bed-rumpled and half-golden in the morning light. Dorian tries not to look at that expanse of pale, muscular chest - and on it, the lovebites he still remembers leaving, when he so stupidly lost himself. Gal looks at him, and it’s a plea by any other name. “Dorian…”

He turns away from that frighteningly tempting sight. “Don’t. Please.”

And then he all but flees, wondering how, even after all this time, he’s found himself sneaking out of Gal's bed again.


	6. we can only understand what we are shown

 

Dorian wakes, shivering, from dreams of laughter in his ear and kisses along his spine, and doesn’t hasten to the nearest source of alcohol. He hates to admit it, but he has work to do. 

After a perfunctory, half-freezing bath that mostly involved splashing water into his face and cursing his stupidity – he barely bothered to warm the water, and he wonders if he isn’t some kind of masochist – he all but throws on clothes and robes. The garb of a magister feels oddly like armour. He shaves, lines his eyes, for appearance’s sake more than anything, waxes his moustache, and then assesses himself in the looking-glass, wrinkling his nose. To anyone else, there would be little difference. He looks at the hollowness in his eyes and the tired darkness around them, and thinks he looks like shit.

After another session of glaring at Venatori missives and finding nothing – just him, Mae and Lucia, because the raiding party is meeting to discuss last plans and the world has some mercy; he’s not sure he could stand to be in the same room as Gal, not now – they disperse. He stands there, in the mostly-empty mages’ tower, and exhales.

It’s too quiet here without a task to puzzle out. It allows him to  _think_ , and that’s dangerous when every time he closes his eyes, he can still feel Gal’s hands on him. When he can do little but think of that terrible slip of the tongue - so frighteningly true, because everything he hasn’t said and has tried not to think has been  _amatus,_  even after…

He curses under his breath and walks out of the room without another word. He hears Mae say something from behind him, but he keeps going.

He manages to make it halfway through his drink before there’s the quiet sliding of silk robes and she takes a seat next to him. “It sounds like you’re moping,” she says quietly.

He frowns. “I hadn’t said anything.”

“Exactly. And you’ve ended up in the nearest tavern. That sounds like the Dorian Pavus I knew in Qarinus.”

He looks into a glass of the only half-decent wine he could find. Too dry, but perhaps everything tastes sour today; he can’t think why. Not that that matters – if he can throw it back fast enough, it will barely have to touch his tongue. “I’ve done something very, very stupid.”

Mae sighs and moves to lean on the bar next to him. After making the “what he’s having” gesture to the barmaid, she says in a resigned tone, “Was ‘something stupid’ called Galahad Trevelyan?”

He tenses, looks around them to see if anyone’s heard. “You can’t just say things like that.” He scrapes a hand through his hair. “We’re not - ” He takes a rather undignified swig of wine. “Besides, no-one calls him Galahad.” The words are too bitter.

“He broke my friend’s heart. I’m calling him Galahad.” The wine finally arrives, and she thanks the bartender before taking a sip, and then grimacing. “I thought you told me they could occasionally find a decent grape down south.”

Dorian can’t bring himself to play along. He rests his head in his hand, and says, “How am I meant to look him in the eye?”

“The same way you used to look at every other noble’s son. It was never a problem before.”

“They were different. I didn’t - ” He swallows wine to drown the words fighting to leave his mouth, and his eyes sting.  _No, no, no. Not again._

There’s a silence, and he thinks she’s probably mulling that over. “Still?” she says, sounding surprised.

“I never stopped.” He realises his voice sounds more than a little despairing. He drains the wine and says, “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

With the reflexes of a consummate caster, she grabs his arm. “No. You’re going to tell me what happened, or I’m going to Fade-pull his intestines out of his nose.”

He blinks, fighting mental images, but the distraction is enough. He turns, and tries to find the words, sagging. “He apologised, Maevaris.” He sighs, and rubs a hand over his forehead. “It was precisely what I’d wanted to hear. He was practically on his knees. And I… I couldn’t stand it.”

She frowns. “Was this you being contrary again?”

He shakes his head. “I think he actually meant it.”

Raising an eyebrow, she prods, “And then?”

“What do you think?” he grits out.

“Oh,” she sighs.

“I thought that it must just be the sex, because it’s always just the sex, no matter what they say, and for all the  _I love you_ nonsense, he couldn’t be bothered to stay either, in the end. I thought… well, getting it out of my system worked so well last time I was here.” He laughs bitterly and swigs. “You know, I almost miss the days when I thought that was all I could have. Easier to be disappointed. And I’ve…” He touches an absentminded hand to the back of his neck. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Dorian…”

He presses his fingers to his forehead. “Forgive me. I need to be… somewhere else.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”  
  
“This was my own stupidity. Just let me… let me deal with it, for now.”

She scoffs. “And this is your idea of  _dealing with it?”_

“Mae, this is  _mine.”_  He runs his palms over his forehead, through his hair. _“_ This whole fucking mess… I’m responsible for it, and it’s mine alone. My fault.”

“I know. And I know you’ll solve it, too, because you’re brilliant, darling.” Mae’s never been a hugger – unseemly, for a magister to show any sort of emotion other than smug triumph, and it brings you within easy stabbing reach, he remembers telling Gal that once – but Dorian feels arms around him, and suddenly all he can smell is perfume and the faint tang of recently-cast spells. “But you’re better than this. You know it, and so did Alexius, before that bloody cult got to him. Don’t force me to pick you up off the floor again.” She pats him on the arm and then withdraws. “So rather than drinking yourself to death, how about you help me to put those bastards in the ground?”

He looks at her, and manages, “See, this is why I’m so fond of you.”

Her smile is like a knife. “I know. You should be.”

 

 

He manages two days of dealing with it. Somehow, after the initial pain, he manages to keep from drowning himself in a bottle, remembering his mother’s drunken laughter and “All this heartbreak over some  _soporati?”_ He remembers, too, the fact that he’s here for a reason. If he can’t be of use to the Inquisition, he might as well be across an ocean, pretending to be a decent magister. At least then he might not be too aware of the man he’s avoiding, only rooms away, and the constant, teeth-gritting ache somewhere under his sternum.

He’s making his way across the grounds in the shadow of the battlements, watching sunset approaching and turning the stones of Skyhold orange and thinking how much he’s missed the sight, when he hears the sounds of steel, and there’s a grunt. Then a flash of green. He can’t help looking at that, and sees… ah.

Gal’s arm is wreathed in that green light, and for one dreadful moment Dorian can’t help but think of him staggering out of the Eluvian, half-dead but for magic and will, disintegrating in front of them – but he knows this must be different, and so he looks again before the panic can rise. It’s magic, this green, and it feels different from the rampant chaos of the Mark near the end. There’s a shine under the gauntlet, one that certainly isn’t skin. Dagna’s work, perhaps.

Gal weighs his sword in that metal hand, then turns it to adjust his grip. He slams his shield into the training dummy and it tears half out of the ground. He nods approvingly at that, much to Dorian’s disbelief, and then follows it up with a series of savage slashes, teeth gritted, with a low snarl.

When the dummy must be well and truly defeated, Gal steps back, panting, and wipes at his brow. There’s a moment where he tenses, pausing, at the coldness of metal. Then he shakes his head, hissing a frustrated outbreath, chest heaving. He shucks the shield, unstrapping it with those new fingers. He’s fast, dextrous, as if he’s used to the way they handle; this development must have happened some time ago, and Dorian… missed it. Of course.

Gal puts the shield aside and then does the same with his sword. Then he’s unlacing his gambeson, shrugging it off, and Dorian knows he should be moving, at best, or at least saying something suitably derisory to let him know he’s here –

Gal’s shirt hits the ground, and Dorian’s words die in his throat.

Surely he should be used to this. He spent years with the man. And yet he tilts his head, looking at the short hair, the metal below Gal’s elbow, and pauses. There are new scars; he didn’t see them all when – well. Perhaps with a decent mage at his back, Gal wouldn’t have gained them; what are they teaching these idiots in the Inquisition? Gal rolls his shoulders, running a hand through sweat-soaked hair that spikes under his fingers, and Dorian swallows, trying not to pay attention to muscle and barely-hidden strength, and skin he knows nearly as well as his own.

Gal glances around him, and Dorian catches sight of smudged black paint around his eyes, on the bridge of his nose. He’ll have spent the past, oh, hour or so fighting like a wild thing, probably, throwing himself against limits in the name of preparation because if he isn’t strong enough, fast enough, someone will die – someone that isn’t  _him,_ because oh, it’s fine him throwing himself at death, better him than anyone else, because he’s just a shield. Dorian remembers wiping away paint, threading black-stained fingers into that hair and unbinding it, as he listened to Gal say these things. Remembers waiting there, nose against Gal’s cheek, hand wrapping around Gal’s and pulling, making him stay.  _I’d notice if you got yourself killed. Try not to. Or at least do it with me about, so I can exact my dramatic revenge._ He remembers Gal inhaling and sagging against him, still exhausted; Dorian putting hands on Gal’s hips, ignoring sweaty skin, and steadying him. Letting him rest for a while, for once in this entire bloody mess.  _But… like I said, do try not to, amatus._

Dorian thought he’d never see this man again.  And he turns, all but fleeing – or rather, creeping away as quietly as possible, because no matter how much he’d like to turn and run, it might raise some questions, such as,  _Why were you watching me creepily from the shadows after rejecting me?_

He makes it to his quarters, and it’s a relief to close the door behind him.

Of course, that relief only lasts a moment before said door is knocked on, and he glares at it. He throws it open. “What are you - ?”

Marius shrinks a little at his expression, and he again has to wonder when it became customary to appoint magisters who are barely out of short trousers. (Well, that’s hardly fair. A few sudden family deaths – the convenient for other magisters sort, not the convenient for him sort - and Marius got shoved into the position. That, Dorian understands.) “I… it’s about tomorrow.”

“The raid?” he tries.

Marius nods. “I… I know we’ve taken on Venatori before, but I’ve never done it with the Inquisition.”

“You’ve trained with them?”  
  
“I have, I just… Even the mages, their techniques are so different from ours. Older, some of them, but… efficient. It’s kind of… fascinating.” Marius grins from under that mop of curly dark hair.

Dorian can’t help but mirror it, slightly. “Yes, I remember saying the same. Before I realised they didn’t even know how to salt bacon.”

Marius gives him a wide-eyed stare, and then barks a laugh.

“But remember to deal with the blighted lyrium and you’ll be fine. You’re a strong mage. You also don’t let your ego get in the way. A rarity in Tevinter, and certainly never something I’ve mastered. Now please tell me you aren’t disturbing me this late just to panic. Not that I was doing anything particularly interesting, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

“No. I was just asking for advice. You know about working with the Inquisitor, I thought – “ Marius ducks his head. “Um.”

Dorian has a feeling he knows where this is going. “Ah. So that’s what this is about.”

Marius looks up, wide-eyed. “Not that I – I didn’t mean - !”

“Of course you didn’t. I’d be very careful what you say next, if I were you.”

Marius darts looks around them, as if this is some bloody ballroom back in Minrathous and there are a thousand ears listening for the terrible  _scandal_  of  _deviance, it’s the Pavus boy again isn’t it_ , and then says, “I’m sorry. I only meant to ask if there was some way to show him my worth as a mage. I don’t – it might be that southern standards are different. I was afraid of getting something wrong.”

“It... was?”  _Kaffas._

“But if you…  _were_ you… with him?”

Dorian sighs. “I wouldn’t believe everything you hear from the Inquisition rumour mill, Marius. And you won’t have to work particularly hard to impress him – give him half a light show and he’ll want to recruit you. Now get some sleep, unless you want to sleepwalk through the raid.”

“I… Sorry. Thank you.” Marius nods, and turns to leave with a low whisper of robes.

Dorian closes the door with a touch more finality, and wonders if he’s that bloody obvious. He never used to be.

 

 

He’s halfway through sorting  _The Qarinus Histories_  the next day, when he pauses. Ah. Finally. He doesn’t look when he hears those familiar footsteps; even out of armour, he knows them as well as his own. Gal will never be stealthy, but he’s surprisingly quiet for such a large man. 

“I don’t like playing games,” is what Gal says, after a moment.

“Neither do I,” Dorian responds, and looks back to the bookshelves.

“Then  _why?”_ Gal’s voice is sharp, but there’s a shake to it that Dorian can only spot due to paying far too much attention. “You could have had anyone else. You could have done  _anything_ else.”

“Because I…” Dorian shrugs, and moves on to the Ancient Geography section. “I suppose I wanted to feel something.”

“And what, you couldn’t do that in Tevinter?” Gal’s fighting to keep his voice level, so that it won’t end up the mumble he gets when he’s hurt; it’s obvious, if you’re someone who spent years listening to him.

A moment passes, until Dorian finally says, “No. I couldn’t.”

Gal frowns. “What?”

“No _time_ , amongst other things.” Dorian scrubs a hand across his face. “Funnily enough, having the Qunari on our doorstep and half the country doing its best to plunge us into civil war is rather a mood-killer.”

Gal frowns. “You mean you haven’t - “

Dorian’s shoulders tense. “There hasn’t been anyone since…” He tilts his head, but still doesn’t look at Gal. “Well.” He sighs. 

He hadn’t wanted to, not truly. He could have gone to one of many houses of ill repute, could have taken the offers implied in some of his colleagues’ sly glances, but somehow he… hadn’t the heart. It hadn’t been the same. Bitterness rises in his throat at the thought. 

He can’t help himself, then, and he’s not proud of it: “I’m sure you didn’t waste any time after I left.”

He hears Gal swallow. “I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry?”

“No-one. Not since you.” Gal’s eyes are pained, and then he looks away.

Dorian feels something like his heart seize. “The first time or the last?” he says, and it’s too harsh to be a joke. He sighs. “No, I understand. Even if things are easier down south, I’m sure disbanding an Inquisition doesn’t leave much time for more enjoyable pursuits.”

“ _Dorian - ”_

“Not that that’s any of my concern, of course. It hasn’t been for some time.”

“Just…” He hears Gal’s exhale of frustration. “Listen to me. Please.” Gal says quietly, “You left something in my quarters.”

Dorian tries not to grit his teeth. He knows. It was a stupid mistake - one of several that night. He remembers the panic when he realised, and he remembers his grim resignation at the thought of having to ask for it back. He plays dumb anyway. “The last shreds of my dignity?”

“Your birthright.”                                                                    

He sighs. “Ah. That.”

Gal frowns at the floor, then reaches into a pocket and pulls out the amulet. “Thought you might want it back.” He holds it out.

Dorian takes it. Gal’s hand is warm, and gentle. Dorian realises too late that his fingers are lingering, somewhat.

“I’m sorry,” Gal says.

“I know,” Dorian replies, his voice too quiet. “I – “

“Inquisitor!”

Gal turns, rapidly removing his hand, and though he doesn’t curse,  _For fuck’s sake_ is written so clearly across his face that Dorian wants to laugh, even while his heart is in his throat. “Something wrong?” Gal asks.

“Party for the Storm Coast’s gathered, ser,” the messenger says. “They’re asking for you.”

Gal nods. “Thank you. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

She nods, too, and Dorian swears she shoots him an apologetic look over Gal’s shoulder as she turns and leaves.

“Dorian – “ Gal starts.

“No, please, don’t let me keep you.” When Gal opens his mouth again, Dorian says firmly, “Now is not the time. You have Venatori to slaughter, and I have research to attend to.”

Gal swallows, and then nods, turning and striding away.

Dorian wonders what he was going to say, and then decides it was probably safer not to hear it.

 

 

“I told him he was an idiot.”

Dorian sighs. Dammit. They'd made it nearly fifteen minutes, too. “Sera - “ At least she doesn’t know how he spent that ill-advised night. She’d never let him hear the end of it.

“The minute I heard, I said, ‘Screwed that one up well and good, but you can still fix it.’”

Dorian rubs his forehead and stares into his tankard. “Can we not? It’s not as if he wanted to fix anything, anyhow.”

“Yeah, right. That’s why he spent a year moping and dragging himself round the castle like someone’d just shot him in the arse.”

Dorian pauses, and just looks at her, considering that. “You do have a way with words,” he manages.

“More like he did. He kept muttering stuff about how he’d just get you killed, stuff about bleeding out in gutters, yada yada yada…” She waves her hands in a scare-mongering sort of way.

Dorian raises a brow, uncertain whether to be amused or offended or… something else. “He knows I’ve probably killed more Venatori than he has?”

“Sure. But it’s not about you looking after yourself, we know you can do that.  _He_  knows that _._ It’s about him being stupid and scared.” She winces and glugs her ale. “Nobles always are. Even the good ones.”

“...Thank you,” Dorian manages, dryly.

“Yeah, well, you’re stupid too. You’re just different stupid.”

He barks a laugh, though there’s little humour in it. “You’re not wrong there.” Taking a mouthful of ale, he says thoughtfully, “I’ve missed your wisdom.”

“I thought you were swanning around with your magey friends and getting new capes and killing people. I didn’t think you needed any  _wisdom_.” She sounds more bitter than she perhaps intends to.

“Now you know that’s not true. I’ve missed all of you. I’ve missed this…” He waves a hand. “Rustic backwater charm and the scent of horseshit in the morning.” Sighing, he admits, “I’ve missed… everything.”

She picks at her nails, not looking at him. “Guessing he’s included in that everything.”

He exhales, glaring at her and then at the wall of the tavern. “Yes. But I never pretended otherwise.” He takes a heavy swig from his tankard.

“You know...” She sighs. “You know what, nah, not touching that. Tried it with him and he didn't listen.”

With a snort, he says, “I think the Maker’s return is more likely than Gal notbeing stubborn.” He sighs, and looks around them.  _Listens_ around them, too. “Was it always so… quiet here? I don’t think so, but I might just be too used to Minrathous, where people would pickpocket you as soon as look at you. Where  _is_ everybody? I thought they’d have left, if the Inquisition was to be dissolved, at least publically. An empty keep would make more sense than… whatever this is. This half-compromise that’s like… waddling round with your breeches round your knees because you can’t decide whether the trousers are better on or off. Indignity and embarrassment for everyone, and not knowing how to address it at parties.”

She shrugs. “It’s nearly empty. Getting emptier.” She narrows her eyes at him. “And don’t say it, cause I did talk to him. Said, ‘Oi, you, big hairy noble Jenny, come with me and we can piss up some parties, yeah?’ And he went on about the Venatori and  _duty_ or something. So now he’s sat on his arse moping.”

“As usual,” Dorian mutters.

“But why are we talking about him? Thought you were talking about that time someone tried to kill you with jelly.”

“No, Sera, that was…” He ends up laughing, much as he tries to contain it. “That was a sorbet.”

“A what?” She squints at him.

“No? That’s not a thing here?” He sighs; he’d forgotten how horrifically uncultured it was down south. “Well, you get some ice magic and some sugared, pulped fruit, and in his case, quite a lot of poison…”

 

 

“ _Kaffas. Imbecila!”_ He all but throws the book outside, ignoring the others’ startled looks – they’re not used to his… somewhat unique style of researching, the way the Skyhold librarians were – and reconsiders,  _again._ The best resource on ancient Tevene he’s found – and this is the ancient stuff, the sort he’s only ever had to learn pieces of for spellwork, because who in their right mind would go for a form this archaic except for reasons of snobbery and secrecy? – is… Ah.

He realises that he shouldn’t still be thinking of it as “Gal’s library,” considering he half-lived down there himself, but he is. It was the place he could always find his – Gal squinting at some new theory or plan of action, dragging out long-forgotten textbooks and memoirs, coughing from the dust but being so thrilled at some new piece of knowledge or obscure trivia that he didn’t care. The way his eyes would light up.

Dorian tries to shake that thought aside and makes his way to the stairs, descending them and making his way over the balcony with an  _interrupt me and be immolated_ sort of stride, tome under his arm.

He all but runs down to the second library, opening the door and… pausing. There are a few books on the desk, the piles far more organised than his usual haphazard research structures. That seems a decent place to start; probably better than searching the entire collection first.

He puts the Regulus on the chair and then pulls books towards him, putting them aside as soon as he sees that they’re not what he wants – blood magic, blood magic, the making of grenades, a history of Minrathous, bloody  _Orlesian gourmet…_

He looks up, frowning, at the tingle of faint magic, the hairs on the back of his neck raising and a hum beginning at his fingertips. It feels like someone whispering close by, not quite audible. Very close by, in fact.

He squints, moving the last book, and then can’t help himself – he opens the drawer underneath the desk.

And there, next to quills and inks, he sees the sending crystal.

There’s barely any dust on it, and as he picks it up, he notices faint marks, smudges across the finish. Almost as if – He runs an absentminded thumb over its faces. Yes. As if someone has done precisely that, several times. Or as if they’ve stood here and considered using it, before deciding not to.

He stares at it, weighing it in his palm.  _Why_ didn’t _you, you bloody idiot?_

He holds it, feeling the enchantment flowing through it, and tries not to be surprised. Here he thought Gal would have sold it, or left it for the enchantment to fade, untouched. He thinks of the other one of the pair, still with his things, tucked away under wrapped staff blades and a few lyrium potions. He wonders how often Gal sat here and  _almost_ spoke to him. 

“Dorian!”

It’s the lack of a title and the breathlessness in Josephine’s voice that make him turn quickly, his heart sinking. “This isn’t good news, is it?”

“They’ve taken him.”

“Who?”  But there’s a coldness in his chest, one growing rapidly, and he knows. He knows.

“The Venatori. They have Galahad.”


	7. see me through

 Something’s dripping.

Gal blinks awake, and looks for light. All he finds is a faint greyness. He’s in a cave – the sounds are right for stone – but he can barely see. There’s water nearby, running. He starts to reach out to feel around him -

He can’t. He’s tied down, and these aren’t bonds he can break. He tugs against them, grimacing and tasting blood behind his teeth. He hears… breathing, very quiet.

Fuck.

They’ve seen him tense. There’s low laughter, and then they say, “Inquisitor. I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

Two feet away, maybe. If he could just fucking  _move -_ “The others?” he manages, through a dry throat.

“Dead. Bad training. I didn’t know the Inquisition recruited children. It’s almost offensive.”

Too simple. “Doubt that.”

“Doubt is  _bad for the mind_.” There’s a whisper of magic behind the words. Gal tries to focus. He can resist -

“Less of the templar tricks. They won’t work here. The Veil’s too thin. You should know that.” A hand reaches out and touches his face, almost like a caress, but it’s carrying the spell in its wake.

Nausea rises in his throat. He turns his head and bites down, tasting blood -

There’s an inhale, and then more laughter. “Do you think I’ll complain at more blood?” they say, and then there’s the rising of a spell and that sharp copper smell in the air. “Live up to your name and  _sleep, soporati.”_

Gal’s got a syllable of the Litany of Adralla out before the heel of a hand slams into his face, the blow dripping with magic, and the world goes black.

 

 

“How did this  _happen?”_ Dorian’s all but snarling, and the troops are watching him, wide-eyed. He realises too late that there’s a smell of ozone in the air. He touches his hair and feels it rising under his fingers; he pushes it back, into some semblance of order, and gets himself under control. Kaffas. He hasn’t had this issue for years, since… he doesn’t know when.

(Since he watched Gal dying, thrashing before his eyes in that hideous green, and the magic came from him in desperate waves, the Veil tearing under his fingers as he tried to do  _something,_ anything.)

He continues his pacing, because movement, movement is something he can do with all this energy, and if he stops and  _thinks_ he might set someone on fire. “There were troops. There were mages. So  _tell me_ , how did this happen?” The anger is receding, and it sounds too much like a plea.

Josephine swallows and looks over her notes again, spreading the pieces of parchment across the war table. “There were…”

The door opens, and then Marius staggers and half-falls through. Dorian catches him just in time. Blood is seeping from a wound on his forehead, and his eyes are glazed. “We found more Venatori than we’d accounted for. We couldn’t…”

“You need to get that looked at,” Dorian says, as Josephine watches them with well-hidden worry. He tries not to remember another Tevene reject marching into a war room to stares and confusion, years ago. It’s times like these he misses Cullen. “How many more?” When there’s no response, the man just staring at the war table, Dorian presses, “Try not to faint on me. How  _many_ , Marius?”

“They carried him away before we could…  _Kaffas. Canavara, esta Venatori -_ ”

Dorian looks to Josephine and can tell she understands, or at least gets the gist. Not that there’s much to get; Marius is babbling.

She says gently, “And the rest of you?” She’s gentler than Dorian would have been. A blunt,  _How many dead? p_ robably wouldn’t inspire confidence.

“They still have the others. They said they would use them for.. for a blood ritual. They were in…  _Kaffas,_ they were in  _cages_.”

“Were they planning to transport them?” Dorian demands.

“Not then. Perhaps later, they didn’t say…” Marius rubs at his forehead, and his hands come away bloody. “I’m sorry, I…” He lapses into silence, listing slightly.

“Josephine, can you…” Dorian starts.

“I will find him something to eat,” she says. “He appears to be in shock.”

“Thank you.” He hands over the shivering, bloody mage, who Josephine manages to support admirably, the way she does most things. Then he reaches out and feels the Veil: better-reinforced since Gal’s efforts, but it’s still little effort to reach through. He has enough mana. He can -

“You must send troops. Surely you can stay here.”

He looks sharply back to Josephine, who’s managing to project worried concern at him even with Marius listing against her.  _Am I that obvious?_ he wants to ask.

“You have a certain expression when you are planning,” she says, in answer to his unvoiced question. “But you must remain here, to - “

“No.” He doesn’t patronise her by starting an argument; they’re both better than that. His voice is quiet, but it is firm. “I sat here comfortably and sent troops, and  _this_ happened. Those are  _my people,_ _my…_ Our soldiers and the Inquisitor – former Inquisitor, as if it bloody matters – are captive in Maker-knows-what conditions. I’m not about to sit and do paperwork when I should be…”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, closes his eyes, because he can’t stand to look at all that  _sensible concern._ “I should have been there.”

“He’s strong,” Josephine says. “You’ve fought them with him. He will survive this.”

“Yes, that’s what we all said last time before I had to watch him dying. And  _he_ might –  _might_  -  be able to, but what about every green-round-the-ears fighter we sent with him? They didn’t ask for this.”

“No-one did.”

He sighs. “I have to go, Josephine. We have no-one who knows the Venatori – or him – as well. Not now.”

“I…” Her brow creases, and she exhales deeply herself. It seems to weigh more on her than the half-faint mage she’s supporting. “You must take people with you. I will not have this be a suicide mission. I will inform our remaining troops and make preparations. We can spare…” She looks at the war table, at parchment and plans. “Perhaps sixty. We can’t leave Skyhold undefended.”

“Corypheus was fond of distractions. I have no idea about his stragglers.”

“I have lost enough friends due to Corypheus.” Her eyes settle on him before she says, finally, “Be careful, Dorian. Return safely. And bring him home.”

He nods, and then leaves.

He’s tying his hair and shucking his silk cloak before he’s even reached his room, tossing it haphazardly onto a chair and throwing aside jewellery, leaving on only the spell-boosting rings and his family’s amulet. He tucks it under his shirt and it’s cold against his chest; it’s been some time since he hasn’t had it on display. He strips down to magister leathers and grabs his staff, leaning it against his desk so it’s in easier reach. Then he straps on spurs, opens the chest and looks through the items he brought here, grabbing armour pieces, reinforcements – good, the ones he commissioned with the barrier-boosting enchantments, he hadn’t wanted to need them but he was prepared to get stabbed in the back the moment he walked into Minrathous and he’d been trudging through a battlefield for a year before that and Dagna was  _good_ at what she did, the best - and buckling them on. He does the same with the heavier gauntlets and the boot-plating, barely thinking, just letting his hands work.

They aren’t shaking. That’s something.

He throws together enough supplies for two weeks – far longer than the trek will require, Gal was only gone three days before the capture, but whatever can go wrong will, this is Ferelden – and throws his bag onto his back.

He gives the looking-glass a cursory glance so he can line his eyes a little more heavily, for some protection against the sun, and then grabs the staff – and pauses, meeting his own eyes. For the first time in about two years, he sees someone he recognises.

No time. He keeps moving, taking the stairs two at a time -

– and makes it halfway down the corridor before Mae’s in front of him, staring him down.

He just looks back. “Do I need to say ‘excuse me’?”

She tilts her head. “You’re a friend. If you think I’m just going to let you march into death and despair – “

“Yes, you are. Because all the Lucerni leadership in one place, so easily killed? That’s exactly what they want. We both know it.”

Mae sighs. “So send me.”

“ _No._ You don’t know this place, and you don’t know – “

“I don’t know him?”

He can’t look at her, then. He starts to open his mouth…

“That was what you were about to say, wasn’t it? Don’t patronise me, darling.”

“No.” He looks up, and by some miracle manages to meet her eye. “I was going to say that the stakes are different. It’s not about  _knowing_ him. You’ve heard enough about him from me to fill volumes. I… I can’t lose him, Mae. Not now. I _won’t_.”

She raises a brow. “Not ever, more like. Nearly two years, and he left you, and you’re  _still_  prepared to throw yourself at death for him? What a mess you’re in, Pavus.”

“He’d do the same for me. He  _did_.” He rubs an agitated hand across his forehead and mutters, “The mad bastard.”

“Rather hypocritical of you.”

He looks up, and snorts. “Yes. I suppose you’re right.”

“If you die, I’m binding you so I can berate you.”

He raises a brow. “You wouldn’t even know where to begi - “

“Some of us have listened to your rants on  _The Great Necropolitans.”_

He tries not to pale. “Ah.”

“Come back alive,  _amicus.”_

“I’ll do my best.”

 

 

He makes his way down to the courtyard outside the stables, and finds a rather large group of troops waiting for him. Sixty, yes. They’re milling about but clearly in one… clump, and they go quiet when they see him, if not silent.

And in front of them, Lucia adjusts the focusing crystal on her staff and says, “I told you I didn’t want to spend this entire trip in the library.”

He raises a brow, and tries not to make his speechlessness obvious. The idea is solid, and she’s more than competent, but the terrain and the climate and the damn  _Veil_ are different here… “If you insist. Though you can still turn back, if you’d like warm baths and Orlesian cakes and a higher possibility of survival.”

She crosses her arms, tucking her staff into the crook of her arm, and glares at him. “I’m coming, Dorian. I was going to anyway, but after seeing what those bastards did to Marius… I need to find them. I’ve done enough of it at home.”

“Right. Make sure you’re wearing comfortable boots.”

“Now you sound like my father.”

“Maker forbid. Death first.” Then he turns to get his saddle, and catches -

The boy – the man sees his pause, and blinks at him. “Lor… Magister Pavus.”

He tilts his head. He recognises that face from the hopeful pauses after hideous attempts at jellies and… once, the man had even managed to acquire some peeled grapes. He’s just used to seeing it under a cap rather than a helmet. “Cornel?”

The kitchen boy nods.

“I hadn’t known… When did you enlist?”

“Since Haven, ser.”

He blinks. “How had I not known that?”

“You were a little busy saving our hides, ser.” There’s the hint of a smile on Cornel’s face now.

“Ah. Yes. Good point.”

His voice might sound a little weak, but he never expected an answer to that particular question: whether he’s been remembered with any fondness. He looks over the little crowd, and while some of them look nervous, a few battlemages fiddling with their staves and some of the soldiers in hushed, wide-eyed conversations, several of them are looking at him – and not with “wonderful, it’s the bloody Vint” faces. At least three of them throw him awkward, slightly hesitant grins, and there are faces he recognises. Some even…  _kaffas… salute._ It is utterly and entirely terrifying and wrong and… he should not be the one standing here. But even so…

_My people,_ he’d told Josephine, in that thoughtless slip of the tongue. Yes. Perhaps.

He raises his voice slightly. “You’ve all kissed your babies and waved to your mothers and such, yes?”

There’s a general murmur of assent.

“Good. Then I’m off to saddle my horse.”

He reaches the stables and ducks into the stall, where he pats the expectant-looking bog unicorn next to its… horn. “Ah, Eustace. Let’s see if you’re rested enough for another journey.”

There’s a clink of armour, and then someone he’d assumed was an Inquisition soldier says in the next stall, “…Eustace?” It’s quiet and dry, and exactly as it should be.

He grins fiercely, surprised that Josephine’s  _preparations_ involved this, but doesn’t yet look up. “Eustatius. He prefers Eustace. He seems to think it’s snappier.” Then he finally looks to his side. “I see you’ve finally got rid of that thing you called a cloak.”

“I see you’re… even fonder of snake embroidery.” Cullen looks him up and down, and is evidently amused but unimpressed.

“You’re going to ask if it’s a magister thing, aren’t you?” Dorian says flatly.

“No,” Cullen says, very unconvincingly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “But it is good to see you again.”

“And you. Are you with us, or…?”

Cullen’s face falls. “We needed someone to, ah, hold the fort while most of our Tevinter resources were gone. Someone with strategic and Venatori experience, and someone who knows red lyrium. I may have been in the area.”

“When did she send word?”

Cullen doesn’t quite meet his eye. “Four hours ago. The ravens are surprisingly fast, now. As said, I was… in the area.”

Dorian sighs, and shakes his head before leaning it back against the wall. “Nearly three hours before she told me. Am I so predictable?”

“Yes,” Cullen answers, bluntly. “I’d advise you against this, tell you to prepare, to make further plans; but I also know time is of the essence.”

“Thinking on my feet is what I do best,” Dorian says, with a sharp grin. “And yes. This is far from the first abduction of troops you’ve dealt with.”

“It’s more than that. We all know that Trevelyan’s knowledge can’t fall into Venatori hands. And we know what Trevelyan is to you.” When Dorian raises a brow, it’s Cullen’s turn to heave a frustrated sigh. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Agreed.”

“Find him. Bring him back alive.”

“You’ve a lot of faith in a coddled magister,” Dorian says, as he takes down the saddle.

Cullen snorts. “I’ve read your letters. You’re far from that. I know you’ve been decimating the Venatori in the Imperium.” Cullen crosses his arms and leans against the stall wall. “Besides, I remember fighting with you.” He looks out to the courtyard, and his voice is pensive. “So do they.”

“Speaking of which: give them some sort of reminder – or primer, depending, I suppose – on how to go and get their Inquisitor out of the shit again, will you? The speeches were always your strength.”

“Says the politician,” Cullen mutters in disgust, as he leaves.

“Politician. Not general,” Dorian shoots back, and then he sets about saddling Eustace.

 

 

When they go, he sets a punishing pace. He  _knows_ it’s punishing. Skyhold disappears from view faster than it ever did when Gal was leading them. Perhaps Gal was gentler with his people in general, despite all the pretence. The heat isn’t strong, but the sun’s low, and it’s less than ideal. Even so, the tedium may be worse. Too much time to  _think._ Gal could be dead already, or drained, they could be -

_Kaffas._

“Dorian?”

He looks down, to the mage walking beside him. “Lucia.”

“That was an odd face you were making.”

He snorts and says, “Blame the saddle,” before they fall back into silence.

It’s soon no longer an excuse. His thighs start aching quickly, and they’re killing him soon after that. He keeps going, presses a hand to his chest and throws half a rejuvenation spell into himself, then he turns in the saddle and raises his hand, attempting to blanket the spell over at least some of the exhausted troops trudging around him. A few of them look up in confusion at the feeling, but understanding dawns on the mages quickly. He hears a few smaller spells being cast, but keeps going, not looking back.

He reluctantly calls camp long after night has fallen. If it were just him, he’d keep going, but he can’t expect troops to continue an all-night march; it’d be inhumane. Three hours is the best he can give them, much as he’d prefer it to be otherwise.

It still feels like too much.

He throws his bag into the tent, doesn’t even bother removing the spell-sigils inked on his arms, and slumps to sit on his bedroll, running a hand through his hair, listening to the low murmur of the others in the camp. His legs ache, and the less said about his hair the better. He swallows, and already knows he’s unlikely to get any sleep.

“ _Damn you_.” He hears the snarled words, and then he realises they were his. “Damn you for making me  _this_  again.”

 

 

Far too short a time later, after he’s crawled from his bedroll, had a cursory scrub and tried to pretend his heart isn’t in his throat and he isn’t slowly losing his grip on sanity, they set off again. This should be a three day journey, perhaps with change; they’re doing it in two. Even if it kills him – which it might. But hopefully after they’ve rescued their people. Then he can wander off somewhere and expire from exhaustion, but for now – no time. Isn’t that always the problem? He’d consider some sort of magical approach to try and deal with that, but the Veil’s too thick and he needs the mana. He’s packed enough lyrium potions for an army, but he remembers fights with blood mages. He’ll probably need all of them.

They watch dawn spill into the sky as they journey, the sky lightening with every step. The first pelting of rain comes soon enough, and then he knows they’ve reached the Storm Coast. He blinks against the humidity and feels kohl slide down his face; he finds it hard to believe he worried about the sun. He’d forgotten just how Makerforsaken Fereldan weather was. Normally he’d throw a quick glamour onto himself so the Venatori wouldn’t outright laugh at him, but he can’t be bothered and frankly, he’ll probably need the mana to beat the bastards into a pulp.  _Kaffas,_ he probably looks worse than Gal.

_Gal._ One of the last things he said to the man before all this was that he barely remembered him. He pretended to use and discard him, and even if that wasn’t truthful, without Gal knowing, the difference was – nothing. It was nothing. And he’d thought that they might talk,  _truly_ talk, even if he didn’t know what he’d say, but then…

It doesn’t matter. He was the worst kind of Tevinter, the worst kind of man, and perhaps he’s so angry with Gal he could throttle him, but he also remembers the good they did, once. Gal will probably turn round and send him back to Tevinter after this, but – that would still mean Gal was  _alive._ It would be enough.  _Will be._ He can’t live with the alternative.

They follow the Waking Sea, and he tries not to look at it too closely, nausea rising in his throat. It was possible to cope when he was walking, but on a horse… And if he looks, he’ll remember walking this particular shoreline and -

-  _Gal taking his hand, as if it was a simple thing to do, and saying casually, “Long way to come for an unproven cult.”_

_He shrugged. “I had to do something other than posture. Besides, certain things make me think the journey was worth it.” He’d raised Gal’s hand and kissed it, swiftly, and then looked out to the sea before his courage could desert him. Tilting his head, he added, “And in the end, it’s not so far. Only a few hundred miles.”_

He shakes away the thought before he does something stupid like fall off his horse. The journey shouldn’t feel so long, and yet he’s clenching his hands in the reins, and Eustace makes a soft sound that sounds like chastisement. “My apologies,” he says quietly, and he touches along where Eustace’s mane would once have been, sending out the smallest, most pointless healing spell as a show of sincerity. The bog unicorn seems to… relax, as much as an undead skeletal horse can, but keeps up the pace. He supposes he’s forgiven.

Before long, the familiar cave comes into view, and he swallows, his throat suddenly dry. Things had been so bloody  _simple_ then, in retrospect. But he’s keeping an eye, listening around them, and -

Ah. The stench of blood magic hits them almost instantly. Hard to miss.

He looks behind him, and can see all the mages and a few of what were probably templar recruits getting it too, halting and putting out hands to stop their friends, too. He exchanges nods with a few of the sixty, and he feels Lucia draw a barrier that must cover at least thirty. She’s gifted, but he wonders if she’ll have any mana left by the time they’re a foot into the cave.

He calls Eustace to a halt and hastily dismounts, sending the horse away. Eustace’s eye sockets glare at him balefully, but Dorian makes slightly more insistent chivvying motions and Eustace departs, with a snort Dorian knows enough to hear as “ _stupid human,”_ wandering up the hill.

The silence around them is oppressive. All they can hear is the waves. He hears the noises of steel and leather behind him, faint, but then -

Ahead, too. The sound of leather creaking, probably armour or a staff-grip, and then all the hairs on the back of Dorian’s neck rise and the Veil tears. It’s brutal, without finesse, and the first spell goes out, streaking towards them.

The barrier takes some of it, but not all. Five soldiers freeze, struggling to move under the force of the paralysis spell, but it should have killed them, so that’s a start. And besides, now he knows where the Venatori are.

He sprints to get behind some sort of cover, as do several of the mages and a few of the assassins, and there’s a cacophony of metal armour as the troops run towards the cave. A few more hasty spells fly out, and… few hit their mark before the soldiers are drawing out a bunch of scarlet-robed spellcasters, who back away, desperately trying to put distance between themselves and the Inquisition.

Dorian almost wants to laugh. “There are only about seven of you, aren’t there?”

“Enough of us,  _vulgati_ fool _!”_ comes the response he was waiting for.

Ah. One can always rely on his countrymen for a bit of snobbery. He pauses, leaning his head back against the boulder. “Now now,” he replies, reaching along the Veil and finding one very narrow, already terrified mind and pulling it towards him, throwing nightmares into it with practised ease, “there’s no need for that.”

He grins savagely at the scream of fear, and follows the sound, moving quickly even while he ducks to avoid the rest of the fight. Gal would kill him, always says he throws himself too much into any fray like he’s unkillable, but he can’t make himself care. He listens and catches a few whimpers. Good.

He follows them, focusing and pulling the force magic into his gauntlets, preparing - and then he’s rising, back in the open and face-to-face with… a walking stereotype, evidently. The man is dressed in spikes and enough black and red to make a Magisterium tablecloth. The Venatori is still batting at nonexistent terrors, having wandered some way from the fight, silk sleeves flapping comically.

Dorian almost sighs, but the mage’s eyes meet his and widen, and he Fade Steps instead.

He has a hand round the mage’s throat in a blink, and pushes him against the nearby cave wall. The mage scrabbles to free himself, but his own fear is weakening him, and he’s distracted. The force of Dorian’s spell, quickly as it’s fading, should help keep him there, but it’s barely needed. “ _Pavus_ ,” the mage chokes out.

Dorian tilts his head. “ _Vulgati? Really?”_  There’s a movement to his left, and he levels a blast of force magic at the rising staff with his other hand, blasting it away. “Must we?”

The mage’s eyes are still flickering, trying to follow unseen horrors. “Make it…  _stop_.”

“Then  _tell me where he is.”_

The mage’s eyes are already clearing, the spell beginning to wear thin. “Who?”

“ _You know who_ ,” Dorian snarls. He steps forward as he speaks, pressing the mage further against the stone.

The mage’s eyes widen. “The… the left tunnel. The first door. Please, I…”

Dorian loosens his grip, stepping back slightly. That’s his first mistake.

He feels the mage move, and he just manages to dodge the wild slash of the knife. He grabs his staff and retreats, trying to get out of reach. The mage moves forwards, with a drag of the knife up past those hideous sleeves, looking at his work as he starts to cast -

Dorian takes his moment. He gets the end of his staff under the man’s chin and sends out a mind blast powerful enough that he hears the mage’s neck break. The mage jerks and then falls, catching the rock wall and sliding down it as he goes.

Dorian grimaces, but keeps moving. He’s making to head back to the fight when there’s a puff of smoke and an Inquisition assassin appears next to him. She’s young and freckly. He doesn’t know her name, and he probably should. She says, “You heard that, ser?”

He nods. It’s still odd to hear such a term of address, and he wants to correct her, but now isn’t the time.

“C’mon,” she says. “I’ll cover you.”

He nods again, and then they’re heading back into the fight.

The time passes in a blur of blood and magic and brutality. The Veil’s torn to shreds. He can feel the power fizzing in his bones, but it’s dark and nauseating and not  _his,_ and even if he wanted to tap into it, he wouldn’t. It’s more of a distraction than anything. His head aches, but he keeps fighting.

There are more inside the cave, of course, plenty more. The Inquisition fight next to him, and however many of them he has left wade through, leaving a trail of corpses in their wake. It’s good to have solid shield-bearers with him again. He sees Lucia’s surprise when several of them deflect blows and let her hide behind their shields to down lyrium potions, and yes. Good. That’s a routine he remembers.

Everything is metal and screaming, but inside his mind, there’s a dreadful quiet clarity.  _The best battlemage we have,_ Gal says, somewhere at the back of his mind, and he remembers his own surprise at hearing those quiet words.

There’s movement in his periphery, and he’s raising a hand -

“Area’s clear, ser.”

He exhales, and closes his fist.

“ _Go_ ,” the freckly assassin says, nodding down the tunnel that branches to the left. “I’ll tell the others.”

He does, ducking down the path. The fight fades as he goes, until the only sounds are the dripping of water off cavernous stone and the noises of his armour, his footsteps.

There are three doors. He inhales, wrapping a barrier around himself, because he’s heard of enough traps. Then he steps through the first one.

The wave hits him, and he feels his barrier break. He grabs for the tattered remains of his mana but they fail too, and then there’s a voice and someone presses a hand to the back of his head. He fights but he can’t, there’s nothing he can -

The world fades.

 


	8. you say there's no-one for you, but here is one

 

It’s a good morning. That’s obvious from the sleepy quiet and the fact that no-one’s sending him out on some mission or telling him he has to get up and meet with some Venatori idiot or -

“Morning,” someone says, and a warm weight shifts above the covers, somewhere next to his calves.

He takes the covers from over his head, sits up, and squints first at the weak sunlight, then the Marcher warrior sitting on his bed with a bare foot against his desk. “This isn’t morning,” he responds. “This is more like the middle of the night.”

Gal snorts. “After the seventh.”

“Yes, exactly. I should be asleep. You should be asleep. Anyone with sense should be...” He frowns at what Gal’s doing. “Are those my letters?”

“Just the business ones. You said you didn’t care.”

“I don’t. You’re a stickler for putting it all back in the right order – is that a Chantry thing, or a  _you_ thing?”

“ _Dorian.”_ There’s a laugh in it. There so often is. Maker, he loves how Gal says his name.

“I’m just curious.” He stifles a yawn, and adds, “Call it one of my worst qualities.”

“More from Marius and Lucia. The Coralis family want to talk to you.”  Gal pauses, and frowns. “Something from your father...”

“He’s not trying to drag us to another of Mother’s balls, is he?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t opened it.” There’s an amused pause, and then Gal adds, “...Probably. He says she’ll be glad to see us.”

“Which just means he wants to show off...”

“’...the youngest magister appointed in twenty years.’” Gal finishes the familiar sentence with a laugh.

Dorian pulls the covers over his head again. “Look,  _amatus,_ can we just pretend I never woke up, and can we do this all in… an hour, possibly a day...”

There’s the rustling of paper being put aside, and then a strong hand pulls away the covers again. “Dorian, you can’t just - “ Gal pauses. Frowns. Looks around, blinking. “This is the Fade.” Then he looks down at Dorian, seeming even more confused. “You don’t look surprised.”

Dorian sighs. “I’m a mage of unusual talent, and this is a poor pretence at Minrathous.”

“You  _knew?”_ And then that frown turns to something else, something sharper. “But that’s… just what you’d say in my head.” Those blue eyes are blazing, now. “Thought a demon would at least be more inventive.”

Dorian sits up to glare at him. “I could say the same. But then, if one wanted to persuade me it was you, the suspicious-Southerner act would be part of it.”

Gal glares back at him – and that is  _almost_  convincing.

“Come here,” Dorian snaps, then he reaches out and puts a hand on Gal’s arm, then focuses and reaches out again – with magic. He feels it travel, and it responds the way it always does to Gal; there’s no resistance, and the… feel of him, the way he interacts with the Veil is right. Something real and warm takes root in Dorian at the response.

And Gal stares at him and breathes, “ _Dorian_.” Wide-eyed and so utterly, terribly real.

“Gal,” he responds, trying not to look equally surprised. He wants to punch the man, or pull him closer, or... “Then… you’re alive.  Even if they’ve got you trapped here as well.”

Gal swallows. “You… you came? You can’t stay here. They kept pulling me in and out of this place, asking me questions…”

 _Of_ _course_ _I came._ He realises his hand is still on Gal’s arm, that it’s strayed to Gal’s shoulder, and takes it away. “This is where they put you so you can’t cause trouble.”

Gal nods, and then says, “If they’ve already got you… Fuck. It’s not me, I’m just bait. Dorian, they aren’t after  _me.”_

“ _Kaffas_. Why am I not surprised?” He’s already stepping back slightly and closing his eyes, reaching into the Veil, feeling for the chains keeping them here. Well-hidden, but not well enough. A good mage would find them, but he’s far from  _average._ He tugs at them, and there’s… damn.

“Dorian?” Gal’s voice is quiet.

Dorian opens his eyes, and tries not to be surprised at how close Gal is. “I was just looking for a way to get us out of here. One of us might wake up first, but… can’t be helped. Take my hand.”

Gal blinks at him, but doesn’t protest, and obliges. “You knew we were in the Fade?”

Dorian tries not to focus on warm, calloused fingers around his, and feels for the Veil instead. “I didn’t know you were  _you_. Blood mages like to throw demons at you. And I needed to see the limits of the construct. I didn’t know they’d use such a predictable old dream. I’d almost forgotten about that one.”

“Yours? I thought it was - ” Gal says something under his breath that Dorian doesn’t catch.

Mentally Dorian pulls at the bonds holding the scene together, and allows himself a moment to mourn the idea, a flash of anger that it was stolen. Then he rips it apart.

 

 

Gal wakes up first. He blinks at the shifting yellow skies  around him and the vagueness around the edges. He knows this. Not even a dream.  _The raw Fade,_ his mind says, with the voice of one of his old teachers. There’s open land around him, nothing but grass - but up ahead…

He’s already sprinting towards what almost looks like a pile of black robes under a tree, but he knows. Gauntlets shine in the Fade-light, and black hair gets ruffled by a wind that never seems to come from the direction you’d expect. And wrapped around are… chains. Bright and never seeming to reflect the right colour, but… chains. Fuck.

He crouches and reaches out until he’s touching too-cool brown skin. He checks for a pulse – there, good – and then says, “Dorian.” He touches Dorian’s face, gives it the lightest of taps. He doesn’t know why his hand stays there. He strokes his thumb over one sharp cheekbone and wonders if they feed Lucerni magisters right. He’d thought before that Dorian was sharper under the muscle, back when… No. Won’t matter if they both starve to death through being stuck here. Just him and no-one’d care, but he remembers  _We get their Inquisitor, we get the Lucerni upstart_ and his stomach rolls. “ _Dorian._ You’ve got to wake up. Please.  _Wake up._ ”

Dorian’s eyes blink open, and he bolts up so fast it’d be funny if this wasn’t happening and if it didn’t rattle the chains round his chest. Gal jerks back so they don’t bump heads.

Dorian’s muttering under his breath. “But the – Right, yes, awake.” His eyes focus on Gal, then he looks down at the chains. He gives them a disgusted glare, then he gets the focused look on his face Gal knows too well.

Dorian’s already unspelling the chains, removing them with half a thought. Between the sound of spells breaking and the glow of magic, Gal’s almost too distracted to hear his low words. “Wake up. Yes. To a world where my father’s dead, my mother’s doing her best to follow him, you left me and the Imperium is sitting on my shoulders, waiting for me to fail.” Dorian throws aside the last of the chains as he’s saying it. But even with Dorian moving, ready to leave, the words are bitter, and dangerously quiet.

Gal stares at him. “That really what you think?”

Dorian says nothing, keeps working, but he tenses. It’s slight; most people would miss it. Gal’s known him too long and too well to.

“Dorian?” Gal puts his hand on Dorian’s arm and ignores the sudden, sharp-eyed glare he gets for it. “You have Maevaris and your party, and… you have me. You always have me, however you need me.”

Dorian snorts.

Gal lets go and says, “I know. But I mean it. I never… Never again, Dorian. I’ll never do that again.”

Dorian stands up and puts space between them, doesn’t look at him. “We should get out of here.”

“I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

“I’m in the room down the left fork from the entrance. First door. Find me, if you can. The trail of dead Venatori should give you a  clue.”

Gal swallows. “Right fork. Second door. Same.”

Their eyes meet, then Dorian’s grabbing him and the familiar magic’s round them. The world brightens, then it fades.

 

 

Dorian wakes to a truly uninspiring damp stone ceiling, and then grabs for his staff. No real chains, luckily, and startlingly. He can’t believe they thought such a shoddily-constructed spell would be enough. He sits up and looks at the woman who’s staring at him, wide-eyed, and opening her mouth to alert someone –

Not Venatori. Inquisition. Inquisition, and sitting next to a couple of dead Venatori.

“Ser?” she says.

“Stop that,” is all he replies, and then he climbs to his feet, leaning on his staff and grabbing a lyrium potion from his belt, downing it in one swig. He throws it aside and ignores the shattering of glass. “Have you found the Herald?”

She blinks. “Not yet, se – magister. Um. Can’t be far.”

“Right fork, second door,” he murmurs, and then, “How many Venatori?”

“We don’t know yet. Few more. I was posted to make sure no-one got to you. Couldn’t wake you up yet, couldn’t spare a mage. One of theirs was here, but he – he escaped.”

“Right. Come on.”

He pushes the door open. The coast is clear, or at least it appears to be, so he retraces his steps, the soldier trailing behind him – as much as one can trail in armour, anyway. He rounds the corner -

He ducks the fireball with a half-second to spare, and pulls her down with him. He sprints forwards, ignoring the Venatori mage’s smirk, and raises a hand, sending two days of anger and fear and bloody  _fury_ out with it.

The Venatori opens his mouth - and freezes, ice crawling over his skin.

Dorian follows that up with a quick fire spell, clenching his fist and snarling, and doesn’t even stop to watch the idiot melt.  He turns to the soldier behind him, who’s looking at him, wide-eyed, but appears to be all right except for some probable lingering trauma. He looks back to the puddle of Venatori and ducks down to search through the man’s pockets; those were robes of rank, there might be something…

“’Why don’t you like your title, Dorian?’” he mutters acidly, while he works. “Well, for one, it’s unwieldy. For another, it makes me sound like my father, which is an insult to my dress sense, frankly. Oh yes, and magisters have a terrible habit of getting  _kidnapped_ and then  _murdered._ And have these people never heard of assonance? ‘Altus Pavus’ had a much better ring to it…”

There’s the rapid clanking of armour. He looks up and grabs his staff, straightening.

Venatori. There are more pouring in, probably brought by the noise and by magic that isn’t blood or stupidity-based. He’s been told his is rather distinctive. Three _gladiatores_ run towards him, and he sighs, reaching for the spells -

There’s a cry, and then a sword thrusts through a gladiator’s chest. It’s twisted and pulled out. The Venatori staggers and falls, still flailing for his sword - his sword, which is swiftly kicked away by a familiar armoured boot. He almost gets trampled by his compatriots and the very bloody, swearing warrior stepping round the dead Venatori to face them.

Gal raises his shield, adjusting his grip on his sword with a glowing metal hand, and grins through blood and tattoos. “That all you’ve got, you bastards?”

Ah.

The soldier beside him says something, and Dorian looks away from the scene in front of them to see her readying her greatsword and running towards the fight.

Well. This he can do.

He throws out a barrier, blanketing both Gal and the girl, and then immolates the ground under the gladiators’ feet. They look down and panic, too busy dancing to bother with Gal, who retreats and glances at him. “You alright?”

He nods, and then says, “Behind you.”

Gal meets the oncoming Venatori warrior with his shield and a snarl. Dorian sighs. It’s simple, easy - Dorian freezes the gladiator and Gal breaks them into bloody splinters with half a thought, stepping into the fray next to him.

Dammit. Two spellcasters across the room, already cutting at their arms and chanting…

Gal looks at him, he looks back, and then he grabs Gal by the arm. He Fade-steps through the Veil and cuts through like it’s butter, all but throwing Gal at them and stepping back.

Almost instantly, he feels the weight of a spell being destroyed – Gal’s work – but another is rising in its place almost instantly. He lets Gal distract them and throws pieces of the Litany of Adralla at them, dodging some tendril of blood magic and breaking it with his staff in disgust, doing his best to chant.

And then he feels a connection to the Fade being cut off abruptly, and watches the first spellcaster fall in a bloody heap. The young soldier nods to him, and he returns it, scrabbling for the rest of the Litany. “ _And the Maker said...”_

“ _Let the blood return to the body,”_ the soldier finishes, and the barrier around the last spellcaster breaks.

Dorian grimaces as she and Gal eviscerate the last Venatori. He reaches for a lyrium potion, almost inhaling half of it before he tucks it away. He can almost understand southern attitudes, sometimes. Bloody mages. His kind are a harder fight than they look.

His eyes sweep the room, and hit upon one of the gladiators. Again, those markings and the embroidery on the cloth… He remembers them from the Venatori back home. Rank, or something like it. He makes his way over to search the body, going through pockets with a swiftness that would make Sera proud.  Not that there are many pockets. Or much cloth in general. He’s always wondered at the Venatori’s proclivity for fighting in barely more than loincloths, anyone would think they were trying to show off…

“Dorian?” Gal says, from next to him.

He looks up, briefly, and then his heart jumps into his throat at the sight of those startlingly blue eyes and the man they belong to, real and entirely alive. He’s been so afraid, and now –  _Kaffas._  He swiftly looks back to his work, and tries to keep his voice casual. “Oh good, you’re alive. I was beginning to wonder.”

“I had… I had a plan.” Gal’s voice is uncertain.

He’s very, very tired. It’s beginning to creep up on him, now that he’s had time to be glad he’s alive and the haste of the fight is leaving him. He says, with a slight, bitter uptick of his mouth, “Yes. I remember your plans.”

“They got Corypheus killed.”

He plucks a bunch of keys from the very dead idiot’s pocket, and tosses them in the air, catching them airily as he stands. “They also lost you an arm, made you lose touch with me and got you kidnapped.”

“Says the man who walked straight into a Venatori trap,” Gal replies, flatly, but it’s the sort of flat that is well-controlled fury.

He snorts. “Yes, well. Perhaps we’re as stupid as each other.”

Gal raises a brow, and then looks at the floor. “Maybe you were right. About… you coming back being a terrible idea. This what I was afraid of. Me making you a target.”

Dorian quirks a brow in return. “I’m offended. I think you’ll find it was the other way round.”

Gal gives Dorian a glare, even while he looks pained. “You  _know_ what I mean.”

It’s too much. “Yes, I do. And telling me to piss off to another country and leave you alone didn’t stop them trying. It just made us both miserable. Well done you.”

Gal stares at him like a man who’s just been kicked somewhere very soft. “I...”

A throat’s cleared behind them.

They look to the soldier. She says quietly, “I was told to bring you back to the others.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Dorian manages briskly, even as his heart sinks. “Not the time.”

He joins her, and feels Gal fall into step with them.  The three of them head down the corridor, and he hears faint echoes of armour, growing louder. There are no sounds of blades or battle, however; that’s hopeful. They step over bodies, trying not to look too closely at whether they’re Venatori or Inquisition – mostly the former, from what he can gather, and he tries not to feel relieved and oddly proud.

They move further in, and then there’s a faint sound: the low hum of a focusing crystal.

Dorian’s hand tightens on his staff. Gal draws his sword, stepping in front of him before he can protest, and -

The world fractures, and stops. Beside them, the soldier freezes.

Dorian blinks, and grits his teeth. That’s one of his, or a modified version. Where did they find -

Not  _they. Him._ A mage strides out of the shadows, grey-bearded but tall, tilting his head and regarding them with what looks like amused curiosity.

Gal tenses in some sort of recognition. “You want him?” Gal grits out. “You’ll have to go through me.”

“You say, as if it would be any great loss,  _soporati_.” The Venatori grins, and looks past Gal, his eyes settling on Dorian. “Ah, Magister Pavus. Strange, for a moment there I thought I was talking to your father. It’s the eyes, you know. They’re the same.”

Dorian strides forwards until he’s at Gal’s side. “No. Talk. About the important things. Fen’Harel’s people, for a start.”

“That? Oh. Nonsense. The same as the lakeside base, if it helps. I told Corelius it was unwise to be spending so much time falsifying maps when he could be training, and now he’s dead. A shame. Not surprising, but a shame.”

Gal tenses, and then looks like he’s wrapping Chantry calm around himself so he won’t do something stupid like launch himself at the mage.

“Did you really think we’d collaborate with  _elves?_  Though we have something in common with them these days. ‘ _We are the last_ ,’” he quotes, slow and mocking. “’ _Never shall we submit_.’ No, I just had to get him here. So I could get  _you_ here.” The mage tilts his head, and looks back to Gal, but he’s still speaking to Dorian. “Didn’t your parents teach you well enough, magister? Too much feeling is a chink in the armour. At first we all thought, ah, some Southern bit of rough, but no, you almost seem to believe… What, do you spend your nights with him? Call him  _amatus?_ Do you pretend it means something?”

Dorian swallows nausea and rage, and ignores Gal’s sharp inhale, quiet but there. Tries to shove it down until he can focus. “How did you get that spell?”

“Your mentor was an old friend. A nice man, Gereon. Too nice for this sort of thing, I don’t know why I recruited him. A little weak. I envied that. Whereas you… you’re an entirely different kind of  _weak,_ aren’t you, Pavus?”

“Yes, yes, villainous monologue, Tevinter glory, so on. I’m sure I’m meant to be impressed. Why the production? Why all this?”

The mage laughs, low and brief. "Ah. You still think this is about our homeland. So did they.” He looks to the dead Venatori, before he returns his eyes to Dorian’s. “My name is Maron Emerius.” The mage pauses.

 _Emerius._ Maker, that name… He’s sure he knows that name…

“No? Of course not. I didn’t expect you to recognise me. The thing is, you killed my son. I doubt you even remember.”

 _Emerius._ Ice floods Dorian’s spine. “I do.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I do. Aelius was an acquaintance.”

The mage’s brows raise, and the mask of casual calm slips, briefly, before it’s put back on.

“He used to talk about you. How desperately he wanted to be like you, the father who kept telling him to be  _better, more._ Not that that sounded familiar.” Dorian huffs a bitter laugh. “And all this… I didn’t even kill the man.”

Emerius’s brow twitches. “Lying doesn’t become you, Pavus.”

“Did you know about the red lyrium, when you made him join your quest? Or perhaps the red templars hadn’t joined you, then. Did you know how easily it could be spread?”

“Lying,” Emerius repeats, quietly. “I know you’re lying.”

“A potion mixup, I’d imagine. Something easily done, we’ve all managed it while busy, or drunk.” It should be satisfying, telling the truth. Instead Dorian just feels hollow, and tired. He rubs his forehead, and looks to Gal. “Do you remember the last fight we had here? When I couldn’t sleep?” When he’d crawled into Gal’s tent and ended up sleeping in his arms because it was easier to speak of Gal’s nightmares than his own and he’d thought he’d never be warm again.

Gal stares back at him, and nods.

Dorian exhales, and looks back to Emerius. “I met Aelius, then, as you no doubt know. And I killed him. Because he begged me to.”

“You’re lying,” Emerius says, very softly, but his hand is shaking on his staff.

“He asked me to stop the song in his head.  So I did. You killed him by dragging him into the Venatori. I only finished the job.”

“I - “ Emerius’s hand loosens on the staff, and his back bows. His focus slips. The spell warps. It’s enough.

Dorian takes the spell from him, pours mana into it, and turns it back.

Emerius freezes, and behind them, the Inquisition soldier gasps, inhales.

Dorian says grimly, “He hadn’t mastered the duration. Tie him up, while you still can.”

The soldier rushes to tie Emerius’ casting hands behind his back. Dorian grimaces when he sees her shove magebane under the rope, against Emerius’ skin. He looks into those wide, pained eyes, and sighs, “ _Sleep.”_ He places a hand on Emerius’ forehead, and then unravels the time spell.

The world rushes in. Emerius collapses, eyes closing, and the soldier has to catch him hastily.

They make their quiet way through the cave, the four of them, and Gal says softly, “Was that true? About his son.”

“Yes,” Dorian replies. It’s all he says. The memories are enough; he doesn’t need to throw them at anyone else.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You had enough to deal with. Why would I? He wasn’t the only one I knew. He wasn’t the last.”

“ _Dorian_  - “ Gal sighs, and seems to give up.

“You looked like you recognised him.”

“He sent me into the Fade, the first few times. Kept me here. Made me dream… things. Getting rescued. Thought I was still dreaming.”

Dorian spreads his hands slightly. “Very much real, I’m afraid.” He looks consideringly at the unconscious mage. “I could kill him, if you like. Or you could. I hate to deny you that kind of thing.”

Gal shakes his head. “You think he’s the last of them?”

“I don’t know. I hope so. But hope doesn’t mean much.”

The clanking grows louder, and they tense -

A troop of the Inquisition’s people come round the corner, with Lucia at the head of them. She’s bloodstained and looks exhausted, but her eyes are bright, and with her… well. There are… more than sixty.

“I take it you found the others, then,” Dorian manages.

Lucia nods, and grins.

Beside her, the assassin from the entrance steps forwards. “Ser, I swear, I didn’t know it was a trap – should’ve come with you – we got there as fast as we could but we couldn’t break the spell so I had to leave someone with you, and then, then the Herald had already - “ Her eyes fall to Gal, and she hastily bows, pressing a fist to her chest. “Inquisitor.”

“Retired,” Gal says quietly.

“Horseshit,” Dorian mutters, even more quietly. He looks innocent and ignores the irked, amused look Gal gives him.

Gal says, “You have everybody? The area’s clear?”

She nods. “Everywhere except where you came from, ser.” She looks to Dorian, and says hastily, “Sers. And I’m assuming that’s clear.”

Gal nods. “It is. Thank you, Poll.”

She blinks in surprise, and then nods to Emerius. “We can take him, if you’d like. The route outside the cave’s clear, too. We’ve got people posted.”

Gal tilts his head, and frowns.

“Thought you’d want to get home.” She carefully doesn’t look at Dorian, but he feels the plural  _you_ very clearly. “Been a long day or two. We’ve found Eustace, but… we think there are tracks that look like Chev’s. She can’t be far.”

Gal nods, still looking surprised but seemingly too startled to protest. “Thank you.” He looks to Dorian, seeming uncertain.

Dorian says smoothly, “I’ll accompany him and make sure he doesn’t break his neck. We can see you in… three days, thereabouts?”

“Yes.” Poll salutes again. “Sers.” Then she turns to speak to the others, and they begin to crowd around the soldier and Emerius.

Dorian looks questioningly to Lucia, and she simply nods.

He returns it, and then he makes his way towards the entrance, Gal at his side. When the tiredness really hits, they’ll positively be crawling, but until then he feels almost bright with a private, strange sort of thrill. He says, as they make their way out and squint against the too-bright daylight, acknowledging the salutes of the few troops posted outside, “You’re alive. I’m alive. Odd, isn’t it?”  

“You expected something different?” Gal says, softly, and looks at him.

“Expected, yes. Hoped for, no.”

He swallows, remembering too late a similar conversation after Corypheus. He remembers taking Gal aside after the celebrations, and later, he remembers the surprised, slightly hysterical laughter he’d been unable to stifle against Gal’s skin.  _Amatus, you’ve actually done it. You’ve bloody won._ He remembers Gal saying,  _Think you were there too,_ and looking at him as if he were the sun, a hand tracing his face. It had always been  _I love you,_ the way Gal touched him, even when the words went unsaid. And Gal had… well, it had been a terrifying conversation. Terrifying, but rather marvellous, in its own way.  _You said after Corypheus, we’d talk about the future._

Their idea of the future had never included this.

He remembers, and he knows with every fibre of his being, from Gal’s silence and the way neither of them can quite look at the other, that Gal is remembering too.

An odd, echoing neigh startles them both, and Dorian looks to his side – where an undead horse is stepping into their path, and looking at them expectantly.

“Ah, Eustace!” he says, and – embarrassingly – all but bounds to his saviour from… well, Gal, and the conversation they weren’t having.

Eustace neighs, and then looks up… up the hill.

“What?”

Eustace gives him a Look, and he suddenly realises that his horse has rather a lot in common with the man standing next to him, who makes a small, stifled noise that is most definitely a snicker, the bastard.

“Eustace, I don’t speak Horse.”

“Think he wants us to follow him,” Gal says.

“I’d gathered that. The question is: what  _to?”_  Dorian sighs, but winds his hand gently into the reins, and lets himself be led.

It’s a short walk up to the hill. It passes in silence, until Eustace’s head rises, and he makes an odd noise. Dorian follows that eyeless gaze, and… ah.  _Kaffas._ They make their slow, careful way over to a very tired-looking horse, one attempting to munch on an apple tree, by the looks of it. Her saddle’s still on.

“Hello, Chev,” Dorian sighs, and reaches out a tentative hand.

She eyes him, but doesn’t kick him in the head. It’s a good enough start. It worked well enough with Gal, after all.

Dorian didn’t think a horse could visibly  _brighten_ at the sight of someone, but when she sees Gal, Chev… changes, somehow. Gal strides over to her, smiling, long legs quickly eating up the distance, and Dorian is soundly ignored.

Dorian feels rather inadequate listening to all the murmured sweet nothings and seeing all the mane-stroking. He looks to Eustace. Eustace looks back.

“Good… horse,” he tries.

The look he receives, even from a horse with no eyes, can only be called  _withering._

 


	9. the truth is a beautiful thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't get too excited, folks - I decided it made more sense to split the last chapter I uploaded into two, for pacing reasons. The next and final chapter will be out very soon.

They manage to ride for a couple of hours, in the end. Soon it becomes clear they’re both flagging. Gal’s knuckles and his arse and hiseverything hurt, and Dorian’s sagging in the saddle, looking to the sun all the time. It’s going to set soon.

He draws level with Dorian and says, “Remember the cave where we used to camp, back when we needed the post?”

Dorian brightens. “The one by the pond? I do. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

 _Probably not. Thinking I don’t want to sleep without you._ “Probably.”

They change course and nudge the horses, and before long they’re dismounting outside the cave. Gal sorts out the horses and makes sure they’ve got something to eat while Dorian conjures barriers and glyphs behind him, steady and quiet. It almost feels like the old days, when the others would head off to hunt and they’d be left to set up camp -

-  _Dorian hastily putting aside the spells. Pulling him closer to kiss him. Laughing at his surprise and the way he tried not to get tangled up in capesilk and buckles while he looked for somewhere to put his hands. “I’ve been wanting to do that for hours, amatus. I thought we’d never have a moment to ourselves.”_

Fuck.

He blinks, and swallows, his spine prickling as he tries not to look at the man behind him. Things were easier before; it feels different, now it’s only the two of them. They’ve barely been alone since the night Dorian came up to his quarters and -

He turns and heads into the cave, needing more space between them. He drags out a few pieces of jerky and throws together a few pieces of wood that he found outside for a fire, trying not to think about anything. All of it.

He’s squinting at a few pieces of bruised fruit and trying to work out if they’ll taste decent when the fire flares into life, and then Dorian sits next to him. There’s a couple of feet between them, but it’s not enough. (Too much.)

Gal says, “Before I left… We were going to talk about…” Fuck. But now he’s started, might as well carry on. He feels more than sees Dorian tense up, but he tries, “I meant what I said. I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Dorian says quietly, looking at the fire. “When I heard they’d taken you, I thought…” He shakes his head. “Well. It doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m glad we’re here, rather than in some Venatori cage somewhere.”

“Thank you,” Gal says.

“Think nothing of it. You’d have done the same for me.”

Gal looks at his knees, rather than Dorian. “When… That night. Why did you do it?”

“I thought I’d told you.” Dorian sighs, and looks up. His cheekbones are sharp and shadowed, and the firelight makes his eyes shine. “It wasn’t right of me, and I’m sorry. I thought it wouldn’t… I suppose I thought you wouldn’t care about it, not really. I thought perhaps it had been long enough.”

“Still don’t believe you.”

Dorian glares at him. “We all do stupid things when we’re hurt. You’d know.”

Gal’s stomach drops. “What are you saying?”

Dorian raises a brow, but he’s pulling icy calm over him, and he looks both like a magister and like the man Gal saved the world and shared a bed with. The man who pretended not to care about anything and cared about  _everything._ “Do you not remember Halamshiral?”

“I do.” Gal tries to keep his voice level.

“Wasn’t the best way to end things, was it?”

“You  _left me,_ ” Gal snaps. Fuck. That wasn’t fair. He looks away, then. “Sorry. I didn’t mean - “

“Yes. You did.” Dorian tilts his head and watches him levelly. “But it’s not like you did the same to me.”

“I… Yes,” Gal breathes, eventually, scrubbing his hand across his eyes. “You don’t… I just… I thought I couldn’t do it. Too used to being the one leaving. I really did think I’d… I thought I’d paint a target on your back.”

“Amazingly self-centered, really.”

“Dorian… I thought I was going to lose you either way. A clean break seemed better than dragging it out.”

Dorian’s face twists. “And who said you were going to lose me? Did you really think so little of me? That I’d get a taste of power and a few miles between us and forget you? I told you, but no,  _you_ were intent on deciding my future for me. What was best for me. Because that worked so well for my father.”

Gal feels like he’s just been slapped. No, a slap would’ve been better. “Fuck,” he breathes, and then he puts his head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Dorian says, quietly. “That was unworthy of me.”

“No. You’re right. Fuck, you’re right.” He can’t look up, can’t meet Dorian’s eye. “I’m…” He shakes his head.

Gal feels a hand on his shoulder, and then Dorian says, “No, you’re a far better man than he ever was. But you retreated.” Dorian’s voice is sharp. “I remember Haven. I remember what a mess you were. And you were doing it again. You wouldn’t  _talk_ to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Gal says. He runs his hands over his face. “Shouldn’t have done it. Any of it. I should have just… I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

“I could have handled it far better,” Dorian sighs. “I should have, and I’m... I’m sorry. But saying that doesn’t change anything.” He stretches, and pauses. “Maker, I’d forgotten how heavy full armour can be.” He stands, and starts unbuckling pieces, shoving them aside.

Gal thinks about it and then does the same. Shedding his pieces involves a lot more clattering. He needs to, though; he hasn’t had a proper sleep in days, and getting dragged into the fade doesn’t count. His muscles ache, and his eyes feel heavy. He manages all right until he gets to his right gauntlet, and he winces. He peels the leather away and puts it aside, and sees blood on the sleeve of his undershirt.

He hears Dorian pause, and looks up. Looks some more, forgetting the pain.

“What?” Dorian says, looking amused. He looks at himself, down to his leathers, armour and silk thrown aside.

Gal smiles before he can stop himself. “Familiar,” is all he says.

Dorian looks a little surprised, and his eyes are bright. “Yes, I suppose it is. A sad lack of books here, however.” He swallows. “Now let’s take a look at that arm.” He crouches to look through his pack and fetches a health potion and his canteen before Gal can say anything. “I can barely do more than a scratch on a good day, and I doubt I have enough mana left to light a candle, after those fights, but I’ll do my best.” Then he’s standing in front of Gal and looking expectant.

Gal stares back before rolling his sleeve up. He winces as it unsticks from the wound, already crusting with dried blood. He didn’t even notice it at the time; it’s a glancing thing, probably, but it broke skin and he’s bleeding all over his forearm.

Dorian pours some water onto it and scrubs away blood. He’s gentle – always is – but Gal winces at the sting anyway.

“Right, well, it’s not as bad as I’d feared. The shirt’s a lost cause, but it can last until we get back to Skyhold.” Then he wraps his hand around the wound, closes his eyes, and there’s the glow of magic. “Ah… there we are.”

Gal tries not to watch him too closely, but it’s always been fascinating, watching him cast. He always looks happy. Strong. Like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be.

Dorian opens his eyes and looks like he’s coming back to himself. They both realise at the same time that they’re a little too close, and Dorian steps back. His hand trails along Gal’s wrist, the kind of brief where he probably didn’t even notice he was doing it. Gal swallows the longing and tries to focus as Dorian says, “Here. There’ll be a few things you’re not telling me about, and I’m no healer. I can barely muddle through.” Dorian sighs, and his voice is quiet when he says, “What have you done to me? I’ve only been back down south two minutes and already I’m at your beck and call. It never stops, does it?”

Gal waits for that tinge of bitterness, but it isn’t there. It’s gentle, amused and… fond, maybe, Gal would say, if he hadn’t fucked things up between them. Like the way it used to be. Gal uncorks the potion with his teeth and drinks. He catches Dorian quickly looking away, and then they’re getting rid of the rest of the armour.

“By the way, the answer to your question...” Dorian doesn’t look at him. “The truth is, I’d missed you too.”

Gal doesn’t think he can speak, so he doesn’t.

They eat a quick meal of the things they can find. They shove some of it on the fire. It’s nothing special, but it’s enough. Afterwards, they both sag slightly, and Dorian’s putting down a bedroll first.

Gal pretends not to watch him, keeping an eye on the fire instead. Within a few minutes, Gal’s laying down bedding at the other end of the cave. By the time he’s finished, Dorian’s already asleep. Gal looks at a face he probably knows better than his own. The kohl’s rubbed away and long gone, and there’s enough stubble that Gal thinks Dorian would probably look decent with a beard, if he wanted to. He’s thought it before, when they used to wake up together. He looks… different. Vulnerable.

Gal looks away, wondering why he threw this away. Fuck, he was stupid. Should’ve used the crystal. Should’ve written. All of it.

He thinks of Dorian running straight into a trap to find him, and doesn’t know if he wants to argue with him or… There were troops. Dorian didn’t have to go. He’s a magister, magisters don’t… There must have been some other reason. Strategy, or… something.

He looks back when something catches his eye. Even with the bedroll, Dorian’s shivering in his sleep; it’s slight but it’s there. Gal exhales. There was a reason he made sure there were extra furs and blankets in Dorian’s old room. Gal grabs his blankets, crosses the cave and wraps them round Dorian, tucking them around him. Then he heads back and lies down, finally unstrapping the metal arm and shifting what his body’s got left, looking at the rock above him. It’s a warm night. He can do without.

 

 

The question bothers him the next day. It keeps bothering him after he wakes up and Dorian hands him back the blankets in the morning with a quiet, “Thank you,” no sarcasm in it.  Better-rested, long hair falling into his face, in just a shirt and breeches. Gal thinks this must be what he looks like when he wakes up in Minrathous, and stops looking before the thought chokes him. Instead he puts his mind back to the question.

He chews it over the same time as he’s chewing the rabbit Dorian brought back after a few minutes outside the cave and cooked with magefire. Dorian looks at him curiously, but doesn’t ask. Not about that.

Instead, Dorian glances at the stump that used to be Gal’s left forearm and says, “Does it still ache?”

Gal nods, and keeps strapping on the metal arm Dagna made him, checking the buckles and touching his other hand to it. It flares, bright with magic. He wants to think he won’t need it, but… just in case.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dorian flinch at the sudden bright light. Or the memories of before. “It looks like Dagna’s work. Did she have to make it Anchor-green?”

Gal shrugs, and smiles humourlessly. “Continuity.”

“Continuity, he says.” Dorian sighs. “It’s impressive, certainly. I notice you don’t wear it around Skyhold.”

Another shrug. “It’s heavy. And it can… rub. Especially if you wear it in the wrong ways.”

“I assume she’s working on that?”

“She’s trying.”

“I could have a look at some enchantments. Minor healing things, metal spellwork. If you’d like me to.”

 _Yes._ Gal swallows. “You’ll be back home.” It’s not bitter, just… fact.

“I...” Dorian looks out of the cave, and doesn’t meet Gal’s eyes. “Of course. I’d better make sure I’ve got everything.” It feels like a retreat.

 

 

The ride feels longer than it should. They make it back to the Hinterlands, and they buy a few pastries and a couple of pies from a seller outside Redcliffe. The seller stares at him, wide-eyed. “You’re the Inquisitor.”

“Retired,” Gal says, and ducks his head.

“Yes, he is the mighty Inquisitor,” Dorian cuts in. “Saviour of the world and probably of your stall. Does that mean we can get a discount?”

Gal just manages to stop the laugh. “Ignore him.”

But the vendor looks hopeful. “But he’s right. You saved my town. Give you a free pie, right?”

“Yes,” Dorian says. “Have you seen all his weary heroism? It’s been a long journey. He needs a pie. Particularly pie he doesn’t have to pay for. It improves the flavour.”

Gal glares at him. “I… I’ll pay for the rest,” he sighs to the seller, who’s looking at him pleadingly.

He reaches into his pocket, but then there’s a robed hand pushing what’s too much money towards the seller, who says, “Thanks. Wait... You’re that V – the Tevinter that was with him, right? When the magister came to Redcliffe? Saved him?” The seller gestures towards Gal.

“Yes. I’m that Vint,” Dorian says, wryly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean nothing by it. You saved us and all. Here, pie?”

“I… why, I don’t mind if I do.”

They end up eating some of what they’ve got sitting on a wall a few feet away, and afterwards, Gal says, “Should’ve let me pay.”

“You’d been through enough without having to haggle for baked goods. Besides, I’ve now reacquired my family’s wealth. I am ‘some well fancy magister who practically pisses gold,’ in Sera’s words.”

Gal winces, and laughs hard enough he nearly chokes. “Tell me she didn’t.”

“In a letter, no less. I have written proof.”

Gal shakes his head, and Dorian grins at him, rogueish and like the old days. Gal reaches out to take his hand – and pulls the motion back before Dorian can see it, and thinks hopelessly,  _I love you. Fuck, I love you._

He realises that he’s going to have to live without this all over again, and it feels like a kick in the chest.

“You all right?”

He startles, and looks at Dorian. “Just wondering: between a magister and a lord, who’s fancier?”

Dorian barks a startled laugh. “Me, obviously. I’m an esteemed member of the Magisterium.”

“But you’re not the Inquisitor.”

“Retired. And that’s just cheating.”

 

 

The ride is easier after that. Gal feels lighter, even if he’s still wondering why they’ve ended up here. Why Dorian came. But if Dorian says  _because of duty…_ He can’t think about it.

They make it to the outskirts before rain and tiredness drive them into another cave. He looks at Dorian’s soaked hair and almost misses wringing his own out. No  _almost,_ really.

After they’ve ducked in, the horses given what shelter they could manage partly due to a spell, Dorian stops and says, “All right, out with it.”

Gal frowns and pretends he’s confused. “What?”

“You’ve been giving me that look all day. You want to say something. You’re not sure if you  _should,_ but you want to. So out with it.”

Gal steels himself. “You could’ve just sent a few troops. Why did you come?” he asks quietly, when he’s brave enough.

Dorian just turns and looks at him as if he’s being stupid. “Why do you think?”

“You’ve seen me in a fight. I’d have got out eventually. You knew I could handle them. You knew I was…”

Dorian frowns, and steps forwards. “Yes, I’ve seen you in a fight. I’ve seen you run at the enemy like you have a deathwish. And I’ve seen you when you’re… when you’re hurt. You take stupid risks. Yes, you could have handled them. But if there was even the slightest chance… Well. I wasn’t going to  _leave_ it to chance.”

Gal can only stare, because the anger’s rising in his chest and he didn’t know just how much of it there was until now. “But I remember what you said in the Fade. You knew they were after you.”

Dorian half-sighs. “It didn’t matter - “

“Of course it fucking  _mattered!_ If you’d never woken up… if they’d used you as leverage or hurt you -  _Fuck._ You’re more important than me! _”_

Dorian glares at him, and steps closer. “Why, because I’m ‘Magister Pavus’?”

The anger’s fading, and in its place is fear, because Gal doesn’t think he can lie.  He manages roughly, “I should say it’s that. I should say it’s because I’m just a soldier and Tevinter needs you.”

Dorian pauses, looking at him levelly, assessingly. Then he rests his staff against the cave wall and steps forwards. “What do you want to say?”

Gal blinks and looks away. “Think you know.”

“Do I? Then how do you think I’d have felt if  _you’d_ died due to some fool’s errand - ”

“That’s not the same.”

“Pray tell,” Dorian snarls,  _“why_ is it not the same?”

“Because you don’t love - “

“ _Yes, I do!_ ”

Gal’s mouth shuts with a  _click._ He can only stare at Dorian, who’s bright-eyed and pained and… not pretending anymore, he realises.

“And I swear, if you’d gone and got yourself killed when I’d only just found you again,  _amatus_ , I would have - “ Dorian pauses, and stares at Gal. “You’re holding my hand. Why are you holding my hand?”

“So I can do this,” Gal breathes.

Then he tugs, reeling Dorian in before letting go of his hand to hold his face instead, pulling them together.

Dorian’s frozen when their lips meet, still surprised - then he’s moving, kissing back and pressing himself against Gal like he wants to drink him in, to remember this. It’s desperate, at first, then it softens, slows, and Gal knows: Dorian’s kissing him with that silent wonder, slowing to breathe it in. Gal thinks of a thousand moments stolen behind bookshelves and barely-closed doors; that surprised sweetness, all the pretence gone. Dorian’s hand ends up in Gal’s hair, ignoring the blood, and he rests their foreheads together, exhaling, his arm around Gal’s waist. 

Dorian says, “I lied, by the way.”

Gal tenses. “What?”

“The hair. It’s awful, the sight of it terrified me. Grow it back.”

Gal snorts and just says, finally, “I love you.”

Dorian inhales sharply. When Gal looks, his eyes are still closed. “I love you, too.” He swallows. “I kept waiting for it to heal, and it never did.”

“Same.” Gal reaches out to touch Dorian’s face again. “I love you, and I swear, I’ll never do that again. I didn’t know - I thought… Thought it wouldn’t hurt you so much. You’re stronger than me.”

Dorian rests his head on Gal’s shoulder, his nose brushing Gal’s neck. “You know that’s not true.”

“You’re the strongest man I’ve ever met.”

“Nonsense. You exist. But I hadn’t realised how badly it would harm you, leaving you here. I’d thought… Something. I had some way to justify it at the time. But apparently even if you’re here, people are attacking you because of me.” Dorian presses a kiss to Gal’s neck. “I’ve missed you terribly. _”_ He sighs. “Remind me why I left you?”

Gal swallows. “Because you had no choice. I know you’re going back to the Imperium, but I… I want to try. Again. I’ve always wanted to. I knew almost the second I did it I’d made a mistake, I just… I didn’t know how to fix it. What we had – until I fucked it up, it was good, wasn’t it?”

“The best I’ve ever had.” Dorian steps back, and his eyes are pained. “But even if we do… what’s it going to solve? I’m going back to the Imperium. I’m leaving again, and that went so well last time.”

“I’ll keep in contact.” Gal says the truth, then, because he can’t stop himself. “I’ll… I’ll come with you. If you want me to. If you’ll let me.”

Dorian stares at him in surprise. “Even now?”

“Always.” Gal looks at the floor and blinks too fast, because if he doesn’t, he’ll…

Then there are leather-clad arms round him. “Then... stay with me. Please.” Dorian drops a kiss to Gal’s forehead.

“As long as you need me,” Gal says, and feels Dorian smile.

Dorian’s voice is casual, but there’s a shake to it. “Unfortunately, I might need you for a very long time.”

“Sounds good to me.”

They separate long enough to lay out their packs, and they eat in companionable silence. By the time they’ve done that, night’s fallen. Dorian conjures a small magelight, and it illuminates the cave in a soft yellow.

Gal tries not to think too much as he starts on his bedroll, but he feels the air… change, and knows Dorian’s watching him. He looks to his side at quiet footsteps, and then Dorian’s glancing at him questioningly before laying out the other bedroll next to it. “I take it I’m not intruding?” he says.

“It’s cold down here. Got to conserve warmth.” They exchange grins, and they keep doing it while they’re shucking armour. Gal thinks it’s just him, but then he keeps catching Dorian pretending not to look at him. He recognises that quiet, private smile; he remembers it from the first time they kissed.

Gal lies down, and Dorian wills the magelight back out of existence. In the dark, he feels Dorian lie down too, and throws most of the blankets at him. He hears a quiet snort, and then the sound of them being laid out.

“It is important, you know,” Dorian says softly.

“What?” Gal says, smiling into the dark.

“Conservation of warmth.” The answer’s wry. “Can’t have me dying after all this.”

“You’re right.” Gal shifts and wraps himself round the mage, savouring it. “’Night.”  

He feels the shift of magic-warm skin, and then Dorian murmurs, “Good night,  _amatus.”_

He falls asleep to the sound of the rain, steady breathing next to him, and the faint aura of magic.


	10. the bravest thing

In the space between one moment and another, Dorian realises he’s awake, and… Ah.

He swiftly changes his mind as he feels the warmth next to him, glances at the scarred hand resting on his chest. He’s had this dream before.

He gives a mental sigh and wonders whether to try to shake it off, but… just a few moments more. It’ll hurt more, in the end, but the end is later, and for now he shuts his eyes, fuzzily shifts towards that warmth and tucks his face against a broad shoulder, next to a stubbled cheek. He’d be embarrassed if he were truly awake, but he’s still on the edge of the Fade and Gal really is warm. Halfway to a beard, he thinks, and wonders if there’s been no-one to tell Gal to shave since the debacle of the last beard-attempt.

He realises after a moment that he’s stuck in a bedroll on rough ground, and that all the hair on Gal’s chin seems to have been stolen from the man’s head. He opens his eyes and thinks that he doesn’t usually dream of being in a damp cave with a short-haired Gal -

 _Ah,_ he thinks again.

He shifts backwards as quietly as he can, and takes another look. Then he reaches out in the half-light, making sure his mind’s not deceiving him.  

He runs a hand over one of those too-gaunt cheeks, over skin so warm it feels hot in comparison to his half-frozen hands, and follows the tattoos. He touches his thumb to that soft, ink-lined lower lip – remembers kissing it and saying he’d take Gal with him to the Imperium, saying  _I love you_ as if he hadn’t been holding the words back for days, years – before tracing over Gal’s jaw. It certainly feels real enough, but he’s… just checking. Mages have very strong dreams. Of course. He remembers doing the same years ago, when this was new and fragile and they hadn’t told the others, and managing to wake Gal up with his sentimental stupidity -

Gal grins without opening his eyes, and mumbles, “Promise I will.”

“I’m sorry?” he says before he can stop himself, fingers pausing. Before, he would have snatched his hand away, doubtful such unnecessary lingering would be appreciated. Ashamed, perhaps, of behaving like some lovesick apprentice.

“Shave. When we get back. Know your feelings on beards.”

To his credit, he recovers fast. “Less beards in general, more yours. Not that you have to, if you think it would make you look more Inquisitorial. I’m sure Skyhold could do with some entertainment.”

“From you.” Gal says it pointedly, even when it’s a half-asleep grumble.

“What’s that meant to mean?” He should be offended, but he’s fighting a smile.

“Look like some Tevinter villain from the books.”

He definitely shouldn’t be grinning at that, but he suspects… “I do, do I?”

Gal turns his head and mumbles irritatedly into the blankets, “Sexy… villain.” And there it is.

He’s always liked Gal half-asleep. Oddly talkative and honest, and… softer around the edges. Gentler, more real. Also rather complimentary, it seems.

“You’re pretending not to laugh at me. Can tell.”

“Oh no, there’s no pretending. It’s more outright mockery.”

Gal cracks an eye open and then reaches for him.

He’s considering whether to play at resistance, but then there’s laughter against his throat and Gal’s pressing scratchy kisses there, pulling him closer. He manages, “There will be questions if I come back with beard burn.”

Gal barely pauses. “Fuck questions. They know the answers. Had to put up with us for years.”

“True,” he laughs, and it comes out slightly rougher and more distracted than he intended. “But even – ah – even so… Damn.” Outside, there’s a sound of falling water. “There goes the rain ward,” he sighs. “You’ve probably just soaked the horses.”

Gal stops and looks towards the entrance. “I got your focus that badly?” he asks in surprise, even as he unwinds himself and lets Dorian go.

“It’s been some time,” is all Dorian says, and then he ducks out to check the damage and relay the ward in just breeches, wincing at cold rock on his feet. Still better than the Mire, and the ground isn’t too bad here. He isn’t going to hop undignifiedly, not when he can feel Gal watching him.

“Well,” he says afterwards, returning and dusting off his hands, “the good news is that only part of the spell failed, so most of the water went on a few trees, and Eustace isn’t going to spend all morning trying to kick me.”

“Good,” Gal says from where he’s sitting by the fire, stirring…. what looks like some sort of broth. It might be edible, at least. He looks up, and one of those quiet, surprised smiles steals across his face. “I was wondering,” Gal says softly.

Dorian squints at him, still trying to think through the remains of sleep and the warm contentment in his chest. Casting has woken him up a bit, but not entirely. “Hm?”

“When you came back, I wondered if your hair still looked lightning-struck in the mornings, now it was longer. Got an answer.”

Dorian snorts. “Oddly, after that night I ambushed you, one of my first thoughts was that I’d… really missed your sex hair.”

With a sly, sidethrown grin, Gal says, “You can see it any time you like.”

Dorian swallows. “And if we didn’t have a long journey ahead of us, I might take you up on that.”

Gal raises a brow. “Not  _that_ long.”

“Come now, if there’s that much of a delay they’ll all wonder if the dread magister’s kidnapped you.”

“No they won’t.”

Dorian sits next to Gal, thinks of the all the salutes and the kitchen-boy. “No,” he sighs, “perhaps they won’t. Gal - “

Suddenly those very blue, unlined eyes are on him, bright and curious under a mop of terribly-cut hair. The weight of such focus is startling.

“It meant something to me too, that night.” He looks to the fire, his heart in his throat. “It wasn’t just the sex I missed. That would have been too easy.” He snorts humourlessly. “But as I said… I thought you might feel differently.” His words fail him, and he grits his teeth.

“You thought that little of me?” Gal’s voice isn’t angry, but there’s more than a little hurt there.

“And you thought I’d used and discarded you like some sort of rag. No. I lied. I wanted to be with you, for however long I could. Even if that wasn’t long at all. I wanted to remember. And if nothing else, at least you’d get some pleasure out of my idiocy. I thought that if I kept my… little problem to myself, things would be simpler. I thought it was just me, you see.”

“Why did you run?”

“Fear. Don’t you remember that?” He laughs, and it’s far too bitter. “Or have you forgotten the idiot Vint who thought he’d be a quick fuck and then it would be over?”

Gal swallows. “But that was years ago. We hadn’t – after, you knew we were - “

Dorian scrapes his hand through his hair. “I didn’t know  _what_  we were. I ceased to know when the man who’d said he loved me left me.” He sees Gal look away at that. “And you were still… you.  _Kaffas,_ that was the worst part. I knew almost the moment I arrived that this thing between us was still there. And I’d let myself slip, I’d gone and called you my bloody…”

“Beloved,” Gal finishes, softly.

“Yes. That.”

Dorian feels a hand slip into his. Gal squeezes gently before letting go, attending to what might be soup but stands an equal chance of being stew, down here.

“Because I did,” he says quietly before his nerve deserts him, not intending for Gal to hear it. Somehow these things are harder in the morning light. “I do.”

“Same,” Gal says, surprising him into looking up.

He loses his nerve, and looks to their packs. “Please tell me there’s something more than oats in that bag. I’m not sure I can stand another night of Fereldan porridge. You haven’t already managed to eat those pies?”

“Only the one he threw at us,” Gal says, looking back to the… stewp with a smile on his face.

 

 

The ride seems both faster and slower than yesterday’s. The time passes quickly with fewer awkward silences and no anger between them, but more slowly when Gal keeps glancing at him and barely pretending not to, and he wants to stop and have this, truly  _have_ this, and bask in it being returned to him. While he still can.

Somewhere along the way – possibly when they hit the outskirts – Dorian realises they’re making good time. No, better than good.

Gal must have reached the same conclusion. He pulls closer and says, “I think we might get to Skyhold today. If we do it in one?”

Dorian raises a brow, even with something uncomfortably like fear rising in his chest. “Excepting calls of nature.”

With a shake of his head and a half-grin, Gal says, “We can stop for those.”

Dorian makes a decent attempt at smiling back, and then they keep moving. But over the hours, especially as the Hinterlands give way to the Frostbacks and the temperature drops sharply, it feels like something has reached his heart and is squeezing it tightly. He thinks of returning to Skyhold and explaining… this, and he thinks of his words in the cave, hasty and… honest. Perhaps too honest, expecting too much. They’ve spent nearly two years apart, after all. It might be that they’re out of practise at this relationship thing. Too much to get it back.

 _He says he loves you,_ a blunt voice in the back of his mind says. It sounds a lot like Gal.

 _He’d nearly died,_ he retorts.

Some time after Skyhold comes over the horizon, he realises that Gal is watching him. He wonders if he can get away with saying it’s just boredom, and then Gal speaks. “You’ve been quiet.”

“It happens. Frightening, I know.”

Gal looks at him quizzically, and then follows his gaze to where Skyhold looms large ahead of them. He looks back to Dorian, still frowning, but the truth seems to be dawning on him.

Dorian steels himself. “We need to talk.”

Gal raises a brow, but they’re soon stopping the ride and dismounting.

Dorian says bluntly, “I won’t hold you to it. You’d just been kidnapped, and I’d ridden for nearly three days without sleep. What happened in those caves, the things we said… I’m perfectly willing to forget about them, but you need to tell me now. So we can get this over with.”

Gal just stares at him. “Is that what  _you_  want? To forget?”

Dorian sighs. “I’m evidently not making myself clear. No, I  _don’t_  want to, but I can’t do this again, and I’m not going to stand here and try and read your mind, because look where it got us last time.”

“You don’t have to,” Gal says.

“Then what  _are_ you thinking?“

He’s answered by the kiss, and then all thoughts except  _yes_ have fled his head. Somehow, he doubts what he was going to say was all that important anyway. He falls into it, sighing against Gal’s mouth and ignoring the stubble from a few days of riding, tilting his head to deepen it. Gal’s hand creeps to his collar to pull him closer, and it’s… pointed, a promise. Gal presses long, slow kisses to his mouth, not quite bruising but on the edge of it, and clings to him. He forgets the snow and the coldness of their skin under the searing heat of it.

Gal breaks away with a gasp for breath. Dorian allows it, tries to breathe himself, and then pulls Gal back to respond properly.

“ _Amatus,”_ he murmurs against that familiar mouth, and wonders why it feels so much like a claim. Wonders why he feels Gal smile and then kiss him harder. (He knows.)

Gal’s panting and flushed by the time he pulls away. “I don’t want to forget. I told you. For as long as you want me, you have me.”

“Unless something goes and kills you.” His wryness is undercut by the slight hint of breathlessness. “Or me.”

“True. But until then, you have me.” That calloused, gauntleted hand folds around his, and then Gal kisses his knuckles, unbothered by cold leather. By Gal’s standards, it’s almost done with a flourish. “And I’ll tell anyone you want. They’ll laugh at me for being a bloody idiot until now, but I’ll tell them. I love you. I really, really love you.”

Dorian stares at the darkness of Gal’s eyes and the disbelieving, wonderstruck look on his face, and believes it. “I know.” He shivers. “And I’d like to discuss that further, but we should really get moving before we freeze.”

Gal half-smiles. “Least you’ve got the hair now. Better for your ears.”

He shakes his head and casts the simplest warmth spell on himself and on Gal, and if he spends a little too long with his hands on Gal’s cheeks, channeling the spell… well, he’s always been a thorough caster. It makes Gal laugh and duck his head, anyway, and that alone renders the expenditure of mana worth it.

They end up walking back to the horses hand-in-hand like foolish teenagers, and Gal seems reluctant to let him go.

He knows the feeling.

 

 

They hear the call go up as they’re entering the gates, and somewhere, a horn is blown. Not two minutes later, Cullen and Josephine are interrupting them in the stables. He half-expects to see the new Divine with them, too, just like the old days. Instead, they’re followed by Mae, who watches them with curiosity and more than a little shrewdness.

“You’ve survived,” Cullen says, with the hint of a smile.

He just grins, not even trying for subtlety. “Yes. Bad habit of ours.”

Cullen’s gaze shifts to Gal; he straightens slightly, looking like he wants to salute. “Herald.”

Gal must be in a good mood, because that doesn’t even get a wince from him. He steps back from Chev and says with a tone of pleasant surprise, “Cullen. Who called you here?”

Josephine clears her throat.

Gal beams at the sight of her, and then she’s making a small, surprised noise at the hug she receives – surprised, but not displeased. After the second of surprise, she appears to squeeze back just as enthusiastically. She’s deceptively strong, for a diplomat. She steps back with another clearing of her throat, flushing slightly, and says, “It is… very good to see you.”

Gal just keeps beaming ridiculously. “And you.” His eyes stray to Mae, then, and he offers a stiff nod, probably due to the sharp, sceptical look he’s receiving. “Magister Tilani.”

“Ser Trevelyan.” Mae’s face becomes considerably less… magister-y as she looks to Dorian; it’s astonishing how quickly it becomes cold when she looks to Gal.  “Lucia told me everything. The talk of a second base was to mislead us?”

Gal nods. “It was bait. I’d say still worth checking, but… suspect we won’t find much.”

Mae pauses, and then says, “I’m glad you’re alive, by the way.” Then she looks straight into Dorian’s eyes, adds, “And I’m glad you didn’t get yourself killed looking for him.”

“I am too,” Gal says, very quietly.

Mae gives him a brief, appraising look, and then those sharp eyes are trained on Dorian again. “I’m told the return journey took some time.” She tilts her head expectantly.

“Fereldan weather,” Dorian says, the words carefully smooth. “You know how it is.”

Mae narrows her perfectly-lined eyes. Shrewdness becomes her – makes her look more like the magister she is – even if it’s rather inconvenient. “Yes,” she says, and the word’s too long, too pointed. “I do.”

“As said, long journey. I should at least get out of these leathers. And our dear not-Inquisitor probably needs has things he needs to resolve, too.” He starts to walk past them, then – always keep moving, it means they can’t snare you, something he’s learned all too well from the Senate - and feels Gal fall into step with him. Gal’s carefully not looking at him.

He feels it again, that pull; the way it would be so easy to just slip closer, to bump shoulders with Gal, to lean into his space with that old, easy intimacy. Maker, only days, and it’s already like they’re -

There’s a low mutter behind them, and then: “In the war room, in half an hour?” Cullen calls.

Gal turns and calls back, “I’ll be there.”

Dorian throws over his shoulder, with a sigh, “If I must.”

Gal breaks, and glances at him, finally. Even with that careful Chantry control and that unreadable expression, Gal’s eyes can’t lie. They feel like brands on his skin: too honest, and too affectionate, and there’s the weight of enough emotion in them that it renders him speechless.

He just smiles. There’s a shake in it, but not through lack of honesty. He is. Happy, that is. In fact, there are so many things he wants to say he thinks he might burst with them. That’s the problem. The words and deeds are in the air, waiting.

They part when they reach Skyhold’s all-but-deserted main hall – or start to. He reaches out, unable to help himself, and takes Gal’s hand. Perhaps to check it’s real; that any of this is. He does it gently, thinking that Gal might not notice, and he’s uncertain he’ll be brave enough to make a point of anything.

But Gal pauses, and looks at him with that pleased, curious warmth.

He raises Gal’s hand and presses a kiss to it where the leather ends, quick but gentle, returning the gesture from the cave. A dose of Gal’s own medicine.

Gal’s face lights up, and that smile… Dorian thinks again of a Chantry, and those first uncertain days in Haven. Remembers waking up with a wild-haired, affectionate man who seemed too fascinated by him to even notice the rising sun. Yes, he remembers this.

It feels almost like he never left.

Parting is an ache, but they really do have things to do. And it’s far less painful when he knows he’ll be returning, this time, and soon.

 

 

After a bath and sorting out his equipment, Gal heads to the debriefing. He ends up trudging away, exhausted – but he’s trying not to smile. They didn’t lose anyone, and he spent most of the meeting trying not to grin like an idiot. He detached the metal arm the minute he ended up at his quarters, but on his flesh-and-blood hand, he can still feel the faded echo of a kiss.

He wants to touch Dorian so much it hurts. He wants to remember what it feels like to have fascinated words in his ear and an arm round his waist, or socked feet in his lap and the sound of turning pages. He wants… Fuck, he wants everything. He hears the sweep of robes and smells the hint of hair-oil, some way behind him, and he thinks of turning and taking Dorian aside -

“Galahad!”

He turns to his left, and the harried look on Josephine’s face as she catches up to him makes his heart sink. She says, “There’s the matter of Emerius. You may judge him later, if you like, but he has been locked in the cells for two days. Perhaps…”

There’s a sigh, and then Dorian’s next to them, too. “Much as I’d like to kill him for what he did to you… The man’s lost enough. Does it have to be his life as well?”

Gal frowns. “You know I don’t do that unless I have to.”

“Exactly. I hoped you might have a better thought.”

Gal considers it. “I do.” He looks to Josephine. “Prepare him for judgement?”

She smiles slightly, and bows her head. “Of course, Inq – Lord Trevelyan.”

“Thank you.”

She knows the routine. So does he. He ends up going back to his quarters, pulling on the old uniform, only leaving off the old Inquisitor’s sash. He touches it briefly, remembering the first time he wore it; remembering terror and a hole in the sky but a castle full of his old friends. It’s been a long time since he’s done it. He smears war paint across the bridge of his nose, and feels his fingers shake. He clears his mind, remembering Knight-Lieutenant Hayden’s instruction, until all that fills it is a bright light and… clarity.

Behind him the door closes, and a low, warm voice says, “Ah, I’ve missed that.”

With that, the clarity’s gone, but he doesn’t miss it much.

“I think it’s the epaulettes. They do good things for your shoulders.” A pause. “But now I think about it, those don’t need much by way of ornamentation. They should probably be illegal.”

“Dorian…” he says, turning.

For a second, Dorian just… looks at him, with that sharp focus. Like he’s trying to memorise this, or spot the differences. Then he speaks. “Welcome back, Inquisitor.”

“Retired,” Gal says, but it doesn’t come out strong or convincing.

Dorian reaches up and hesitates, but only for half a moment, before he touches Gal’s brow. Smears the paint a little further. “No, I think you’ll always be that. Much like I’ll always be a Pavus. Titles, they… cling. No matter how much we try to make things otherwise. But it suits you. Always has.”

Gal doesn’t quite know how to answer that. “Think I prefer it to Trevelyan.” He swallows. “Why are you here?”

“I came to ask what your thought was.”

“I wondered if you could use an informant.”

Dorian grins, and it’s all teeth and the brightness of Magisterium daggers. “Always. Particularly one who’s studied time magic.”

Gal smiles back. “Hoped you might say that.”

“Good luck,  _amatus.”_ Dorian looks a little surprised in the second before he hides it, like the word just slipped out. “Find me afterwards, if you’ve a mind. Unless you need to collapse and catch up on your sleep.”

“Always got time for you,” Gal says.

He watches it dawn on Dorian’s face. Dorian’s eyes are bright, and he smiles without that bitter edge to it, and without the fear. “Stop that. The Inquisitor can’t be sentimental.” The words are belied by the way he leans forwards and takes a kiss, with a sigh. “Go on.”

They leave together, and Dorian heads to the undercroft while Gal takes to the great hall.

Gal sits on the throne, and then Emerius is hauled out in front of him, and Gal remembers again why he hated this job.

Emerius is dull-eyed and exhausted, and looks like a man who’s lost everything. When he’s elbowed by the guards, he finally speaks. “Whatever it is, just… get it over with.”

Gal says, “I will. You need to serve the country you wronged. Maron Flavius Emerius… When the Lucerni leave, you’re leaving with them. As one of their informants.”

Emerius just looks at him, with that same hollow-eyedness. “With the  _vulgati_ pretenders. I suppose it’s what I deserve.” His voice is flat, too. He sounds like a man with one foot in the grave. It’s as Emerius is being hauled away that he says, “There’s… there’s something…”

Gal signals to the guards to stop, and they do.

Emerius looks back. “My son’s other killer…  does he love you? Truly love you? Was it worth saving him from me?”

Gal blinks at that, and says the only truth that comes into his head. “Always.”

He watches as Emerius is led off, and tries not to think of the man’s eyes.

Afterwards, he stumbles off the throne and out of the hall, wondering why that answer was so easy. He tries not to yawn, and runs his hand through his hair. It catches on the band. He unties it frustratedly, then keeps walking, knowing he looks like he’s just come from a fight.

He only knows where he’s going when he’s climbing the library steps.

In a less embellished armchair than the old one, leaning slightly against the Tevinter History section with a book in his lap, is a familiar figure. The long hair is different, and so is seeing him here in simple clothes rather than leathers, but it’s all becoming familiar. Only a few days and that’s already setting in.

Dorian looks up instantly at the sound of his steps, and smiles. “A sight for sore eyes. But a tired one, I think.”

Gal opens his mouth. Closes it again. Tries to think through the tightness in his chest and the words he should be saying and the wanting this every day.

Dorian raises a brow. “The goldfish impression should detract from the handsomeness, but really…”

Swallowing, Gal says, “Come to bed with me.”

Dorian smirks. “As if you have to ask.”

Gal sighs. “I didn’t mean it like…”

“I know,” Dorian says, the smirk softening into something truer, “and my answer’s unchanged.” He closes the book with a final  _snap,_ tucking it under his arm, and then they take the stairs together, smiling. Dorian’s arm touches his now and again, and then they try not to grin at each other.

When they get to Gal’s quarters, they shove their boots off. Gal only gets as far as splashing some water on his face, and Dorian throws his boots across the room and shrugs off his shirt, then they crawl under the sheets. Gal knows Dorian’s tired; his hair’s sticking in every direction even while it’s this long, and he hasn’t bothered to correct it.

They end up facing each other, and Gal puts a hand on Dorian’s arm and mumbles, half-asleep, “You’re still here.” He didn’t mean to say it.

“So I am.” Dorian’s voice is soft and certain, and there’s a smile in it.

Gal falls asleep with his fingers on brown skin and a gentle, magic-warmed hand touching his back, steady and pulling him closer.

 

Dorian makes it a day: a day spent dragging himself away instead of wrapping his arms round Gal and enjoying a lazy morning, grumbling his way to his quarters while ignoring Gal’s grin, and letting the no-longer Inquisitor go about his business instead of sticking to the man like a well-dressed limpet. He thinks that’s pretty good, all things considered. Gal tends to make him painfully obvious about his affections. It’s probably a naive-southerner thing.

Gal’s somewhere across the fortress, wandering about, catching up with Josephine and Cullen and trying to tell them about the Venatori’s setup, or lack of it.

Dorian, meanwhile… He stands in the infirmary, bowl of peeled grapes in hand, peers at Marius and says, “Well, you don’t  _look_ dead.”

That gets a laugh from the young magister, even if it’s faint and slightly raw-sounding. “You and Lucia don’t either.” Marius sits in a chair, the head wound no more than a scar that will be magically faded too, in time. The broken ankle that was discovered during his treatment may be more of a bother. He’s returned for a further examination of that mess.

Dorian arrived, got a glimpse of blotchy purple-yellow skin and a truly immense amount of swelling and made impressed noises. Apparently “it’s a fascinating colour” was  _not_ useful commentary, or so the healers told him severely before leaving him to it.

“Are those - ?” Marius says, reaching out hopefully.

“No, these are for me. I’ve already graced you with my company.” He pauses. “All right, you can have a few.” He puts them on the table next to Marius’s chair, showing the lie in his words. “I wasn’t here when you were truly recuperating, so I thought I’d…”

“You were with the Inquisitor.” Marius says that while munching on a grape, and Dorian wonders if the preoccupation of food has brought on this sudden frightening confidence.

“I… Yes.”

Marius seems to realise what he’s just said, and looks like he’s trying not to freeze. “He’s… all right?”

“In fine demon-killing fettle, I’d say. He was frightening villagers again by the second day, which I’ll take as a good sign.”

Marius squints. “And you?”

“I’m fine, Marius.” He sighs, and tries not to allow too much of a smile into his voice. “Better than.”

Even under all that hair, Marius’ surprise and suspicion are obvious. He’s prudent enough not to say anything, but…

For once in his life, Dorian thinks his words through. “Some of the things you heard from the Inquisition rumour mill… might have been true.”

“Lucia thought you were…” Marius considers the grapes, brow furrowing, and waves a hand vaguely. “She wasn’t sure it was… a good idea.”

His voice is heavy and cold as stone, even while he’s resigned. “Of course she wasn’t.”

“I think she’s wrong.”

Dorian raises an eyebrow.

“He’s… He loves you. It might be the… He’s from the Marches, things are different there? I don’t… He never hid it. He didn’t say it, but he didn’t… hide it. When we were travelling, he said –  said you’d got better things to do than run after him. That he was glad you had the party.”

At that, Dorian… blinks, and tries not to stare. “He did?”

Marius looks surprised, too. “He said what we were doing was amazing, but… he meant you. He wasn’t even trying to lie about– Is it like that, here? In the south?”

“It’s like that with him.” He doesn’t mean it to sound so quiet, or so horribly earnest.

Marius goes for a grape. “The rumours made it sound… different.”

Dorian sniffs, and curls his lip. “Tawdry.”

Marius shakes his head. “Simple.”

“Knew you’d heard some. The innocent act didn’t fool me for a moment.”

Another shake of that curly head. “Not until after…” Marius scratches at his bandages.

“Stop that, you’ll make me cluck like a Circle healer. Until after what?”

“I shouldn’t have…”

“Marius.”

“I saw a letter you were writing, the first month after we’d held a conference. I didn’t mean to, but I… I wondered who you were calling  _amatus._ ”

 _Kaffas_ , he remembers that. He remembers trying to squirrel time away to write, remembers feeling like someone was attempting to tear his heart out with every word. He didn’t think anyone had noticed. And he remembers, too, the gentle letter that had apologised, briefly – not saying what for, but they both knew - before wishing him the best with his party. The last he’d received. He kept that for far longer than he wants to admit, until it was crumpled and just starting to yellow, and he could only sometimes bring himself to look at it; usually he’d done that with a glass of wine in hand, spreading the letter on his desk and taking a moment to touch his fingers to that beautifully-rendered Chantry-taught script. It’s still in his luggage, somewhere, beneath the last letter from his father and the sending crystal.

“Well,” he says softly, “now you know.”

After that, the conversation drifts to easier things – Venatori, and annihilating them, so on – but he can tell that Marius is watching him with some curiosity. And smiling slightly, perhaps.

He’ll allow Marius this and not throw night terrors at him. This time.

 

 

He spends the rest of the morning reading, and trying to make himself move, so he can pack to go back to the Imperium.

No. Go  _home._ That’s what he meant.

He wants the sound of shifting pages and steady breathing next to him; soft linen over hard muscle, without armour, and Gal catching his eye accidentally and smiling at him. No, in fact he sort of wants to sequester their dear not-Inquisitor away and just… enjoy being not dead for a while. Perhaps - dare he say it – some cuddling. They could pack books, the new Taverner’s out -

He looks up at the sound of Mae’s voice. 

“Not that I’m suggesting that you don’t know what you’re doing…”  Mae sighs, and runs a gloved hand over her face. “All right, I am. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

He narrows his eyes. “Are we talking about what I  _think_  we’re talking about?”

“Dabbling with the man who broke your heart? Yes. We are.”

Attempting to keep his voice light, he starts, “Interesting idea you have there. What makes you think…?”

She snorts. “Don’t even try. You light up like a Magisterium chandelier when the two of you are in the same room. I thought you were better-trained than that, but as you said… he isn’t just another noble’s son to you, is he?”

He considers the Imperial History section, and doesn’t look at her. “He never has been.”

“You saw how he handled you leaving last time.”

Dorian tilts his head, conceding that. “That should be less of a problem this time round.”

She just gives him a questioning look.

“He’s coming with me.”

Her eyebrows threaten to leave her forehead. “I take it you’ll enjoy having him assassinated?”

“He can look after himself, Mae. Besides, I’ll enchant all his armour. Five times over. Get him some good anti-stabbing leathers.”  He grins, briefly. “And he… wanted to come.” He glances back to his book, then, still not quite sure he can meet her eye. He’s too afraid it’ll give away the longing. Part of him is still uncertain it’s possible, waiting for Gal to change his mind. A larger part is… He thinks he’s  _excited._ Excited to drag his lover back to a land of corruption and slavers and unnecessarily hot nights? How naive.

“Didn’t he want to last time?”

“I was afraid last time. And my father had just - “ He inhales, but he’s never seen any point in dancing around the word. Death is his profession. “ - died. I might not have been altogether reasonable, Mae. And he was out of his mind with pain while the bloody Orlesians were trying to put a leash round his neck. I told you how he feels about the Chantry, the bastard’s intractable when he starts on a course of - ”

“Yes, I care about how  _he_ feels.” She looksat him levelly. “Do you want him with us, Dorian?”

“More than anything.”He hears the words, quiet and frighteningly earnest, and it takes him a moment to realise they belonged to him. “If he can stand all the silks and lack of punching things, that is.”

Her eyes soften. “You’re a sap, Pavus.”

“Don’t let it get out. I’ll never save my reputation.”

She shakes her head, her mouth twitching. Then she reaches into her robes – he’s honestly sure how there are pockets without ruining the line of them, but Mae’s tailors have always been frighteningly good - and passes him a piece of parchment. “He asked me to give you this.”

He frowns down at it, and when he glances upwards, she’s already leaving. “Yes, it’s good to see you again too,” he calls after her.

She looks over her shoulder and smiles at him. “We have the whole trip back to catch up.”

He unfolds the note, and sees in familiar, Chantry-neat handwriting,  _Quarters, tenth bell?_ Gal doesn’t have to specify whose. Theirs, really.

He allows himself a moment to simply enjoy it, having this, the ease of passing notes.

“Oh, by the way,” Mae starts, “speaking of the trip back…”

 

 

He knocks on the door twice, and leaves the slightest of magical flourishes – enough to change the air, to make it clear to anyone who can sense the Veil who he is.

Gal opens it a moment later, smiling at him like this is a welcome, surprising visit, and then goes back to what he was doing, as if waiting for Dorian to fill the silence. Which is… spreading belongings everywhere, from the look of it. There’s armour carefully stacked in a corner, and books, even more carefully. It isn’t many things – it looks as if Gal’s only just begun. Gal piles things carefully, with that quiet, intent focus, almost meditative. Perhaps it’s a Chantry thing.

Gal wanders back to the great wooden chest in the corner of the room, rummages through it, and then… pauses, stiffening.

Dorian takes a couple of steps forwards, on instinct. “Has Sera put sprouts in there again?” he tries.

Gal looks into the chest, and his shoulders sag as he exhales. “There was… something I meant to give to you, before Halamshiral.” Gal turns, comes back with something wound round his fingers, and almost seems like he’s considering hiding it.

Oh.

“Royale sea silk,” Dorian says, before Gal can shove it back in the chest and possibly wander off somewhere to die, judging from the worry on his face. “I approve.” He smooths over the scarf until he reaches Gal’s hand, holds white silk and sword-roughened, warm skin between his palms. “Serpent embroidery? This may even be better than ten."

Gal shrugs, still not looking at him. “There’s not going to be much use for it, where we’re going.”

Dorian pauses, and focuses on those downturned eyes, determined to make Gal  _look_ at him. “I take it you’re certain, then?” He doesn’t mean to allow the shake in his voice.

Gal finally raises his head. “If you are.”

With a snort, Dorian says, “I’ll stow you away in my luggage if I have to.” At the amusement that crosses Gal’s face, he adds, “Or I’ll tell them you’re my strapping manservant. Whatever works.” He says quietly, “I think we’ve missed enough chances.” With that, he gently takes the scarf, sliding it out from Gal’s fingers and slipping it over his own shoulders. “Besides, there are plenty of cooler parts of the Imperium. Some of them even have proper seasons. And I doubt this is the last time we’ll be seeing this place.”

Gal smiles, truly smiles, at that.

“But I meant what I said. It’s not a small change. I was already  _persona non grata,_ but I’ll have to find you some clothes that are more… murderproof.”

“I’m good at not dying.” Gal shrugs. “And you stayed here for me.”

“That was different.”

“I was keeping you from your home.”

Dorian sighs. “Never that. You’ve been my home as much as the Imperium ever was.” He winces. “That was frightfully sappy, I know. I’m beginning to think I should just stop talking.” He sways towards Gal and kisses him slowly, gently.

“You look good in white.”

“So do you.” Dorian winds a little of the scarf around Gal’s waist, gathers him closer. “I… thank you,  _amatus.”_ He pauses at a magical hum, the slight purr of enchantment, and… he knows what that is. He reaches into Gal’s pocket, ignoring Gal’s raised brow, and extracts the sending crystal, turning it over in his fingers. “So you retrieved it.”

“Couple of hours after we got back.”

“Hopefully we shouldn’t need it so much.” He weighs it in his palm.

Gal shrugs. “I like listening to you.”

“Oh, you’ve made that very obvious. I always treasured the chance to get started on some obscure piece of magical lore without having stones thrown at me by unwashed paeons. Or worse, having their eyes glaze over. That’s the only reason we started…” He searches for the word for their  _whatever_ _that was_ _._

“Courting?” Gal suggests, after the silence grows.

“Is  _that_ what it was? I thought you were silently judging me on my impractical attire, and I was judging you on your impractical book choices. Less silently.”

With that quiet half-smile that started the problem back in Haven, Gal says, “I liked the attire.”

Dorian can’t help himself. He tries not to beam back. “And I liked your books.”

“That all you’re here for?”

He allows himself a thoughtful pause. “Not  _all,”_ he says, afterwards, and kisses Gal again, sliding the crystal back into Gal’s pocket and only letting his hand linger slightly on the Inquisitorial backside before he withdraws; he’s a man of will and discipline, and besides, he can feel Gal’s amusement. “I’ve missed your wine cellar.”

He feels the exhaled breath, the half-laugh against his skin, and then Gal says, “Am I a decent vintage?”

Again, Dorian makes a point of musing on it. “Thirty-three years. Not bad.” He grins. “How would you like to turn thirty-four in Minrathous?”

“Love to,” is the instant answer. And then Gal looks thoughtful, and glances back to his things. “I came to ask when you and the others want to leave.”

“Mae and I were just discussing that, actually. She wants to make it four days. That’s when the next ship to Kirkwall comes in. And from there, onwards. All right with you?”

Gal nods. “I need to tell what’s left of us.”

“Yes, do that. They might notice if you disappear overnight.”

“There goes that plan.” There’s a dash of rogueishness in Gal’s face, just for a moment – then it’s replaced by that quiet, easy contentment again. He sighs, and there, right then, he is the Inquisitor again. “I need to go and find the others.”

 

 

The word gets out quickly enough, after that – in the main courtyard, first bell of the afternoon, the (retired) Inquisitor has an announcement.

Soldiers and mages gather slowly, sometimes with half-eaten sandwiches or drinking from canteens, and some of them sit on the steps. There are far from enough people to fill the courtyard, these days. Dorian ends up waiting there, and when Cullen joins them and looks at him, he just raises an eyebrow in an  _I don’t know either_ sort of way.

The rest of the Lucerni appear quickly enough, Lucia partially supporting a limping Marius, who’s already starting to look much better.

At Mae’s amused look, Dorian shrugs. “For once, I haven’t interfered. Or created a publicity stunt.”

Mae replies easily, “Oh, I know. I just liked the scarf.”

Dorian absentmindedly touches a hand to it, and tries to think of something that won’t end with him being mocked for his sentimentality.

“Yeah, right,” a voice says from behind him, and then Sera’s next to him, looking up the steps, too. “We all know this is your fault.”

“That’s - “ He pauses. “Am I taking credit or blame?”  
  
She tilts her head, thinking it over. “You got his head out of his arse.” She smirks and opens her mouth again, and he’s just waiting for the inevitable crude innuendo when Gal emerges, Josephine at his side.

Gal’s back in the kohl and uniform, looking every inch the Inquisitor that used to roam Skyhold, closing rifts and utterly baffling Dorian – apart from the short hair and the pinned sleeve, and the calm on his face. Not the Chantry facsimile that fooled enough people they never saw the anger and terror behind it; there’s simply a steadiness there, the sort that held Dorian up on the worst days and gave them all something to lean on.

The murmur grows, and then rises further, and then… abruptly silences as Gal sits on the steps. That he definitely didn’t do before.

“What does he - “ Cullen mutters. “He’s making a point, isn’t he?”

“He’s Gal,” Dorian replies from under his breath. “When isn’t he?”

Gal starts, voice loud to still carry, “When I disbanded the Inquisition, it was meant to be an ending. You’ve all stayed here, kept doing good work. So have I. But I think we’re all needed elsewhere.” Josephine leans over to him, says something in his ear, and he nods. “I wanted to thank you all for your service. And for your loyalty. It’s been an honour to serve with you.”

And from there, Gal talks about leaving. Four days’ time, he says, and the murmur returns in force.

There’s a noise, and then someone calls up, “But where are you going, Inq – Lord Trevelyan?”

“Kirkwall,” Gal replies, a careful non-answer. Maker, the man’s being…  _politically astute._  “I have duties there. And personal ties.” His eyes meet Dorian’s, then, and he smiles. It’s bright and relieved, and it hides nothing. Gal might as well have kissed him in front of the entire courtyard. Which is suddenly a rather tempting thought, actually – it’s not as if there’s anyone left who doesn’t know.

Dorian resists the urge to interrupt the speech, and smiles back.

Another mention of everyone’s service and sacrifice – Gal makes it sound as if he simply tagged along and made the tea - and then Gal stands and clasps his remaining hand to his chest, bowing at the waist. The old acknowledgement for Inquisition agents. A salute, and a thank you.

As one, the crowd does the same. Dorian feels himself bow too, and wonders if he ever did this, back when he was recruited as some loose-cannon altus who was probably going to murder the Inquisition in its sleep.

He looks back up, into those bright eyes, into that smile, soft despite stubble and tattoos, as always.

The murmur rises to a roar, and there are cheers as Gal moves to go. It’s all louder than he’d thought possible, considering this is at best a quarter-crowd, compared to the old ones.

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and Cullen says, “Maker’s breath. Just go to him.”

There’s a poke in the small of his back, and Sera adds, “What he said.”

He tries not to be too much of a sap, especially in front of his party, who are watching and still seeming more than a little surprised. He hadn’t thought he’d been that miserable in the Imperium. But it has to be said, and so he looks to Cullen and Sera and says airily, with little of the earnestness the sentiment deserves, “Have I mentioned I’ve missed you both?” Then he jogs up the steps to catch his beloved.

 

 

Gal grimaces.

“What?” Dorian prods, dipping the cloth again.

Gal shifts backwards on the bed, eyes opening, and just… watches him, silently, eyes flitting about his face, his shoulders, with that quiet surprise that he’s still here. Dorian catches him, their eyes meet, and Gal ducks his head.

“Come on, hold still,” Dorian sighs. “Where’s all your focus gone?”

“It always goes around you,” Gal replies, with a lopsided smile. “Think this is your revenge.”

Dorian snorts. “Is that the best you can do? You’ve had over a year to gather better lines.” Then he raises the cloth threateningly, and when Gal complies, eyes closing, he wipes away smeared paint and kohl. “I knew you were under there somewhere,” he murmurs, attempting to get the last of it. He rinses the cloth and then wrings it, wondering why he doesn’t just use magic to do this – but he remembers running his fingers over Gal’s evening stubble and thinks he might have an idea.

He puts aside the cloth and most pretence, simply takes Gal’s face between damp hands and rests there, exhaling. He’s still trying to make sure this isn’t all a dream and that he isn’t about to wake up on the first boat back to Minrathous. Now he thinks about it, he’s been trying to do that for quite some time now. Since the first time he saw Gal’s face again, perhaps. He says quietly, “You know when I said it wasn’t just about the sex?”

Even without opening his eyes, Gal seems to bite back a grin. “I remember.”

“But the sex  _is_  still an option, yes?”

Now the laugh breaks free, quiet as it is. “Definitely.”

He says airily, “Good. Just checking. All hypothetical, of course -”

One moment, he’s leaning over Gal, checking his work and making a thoughtful noise – the next, Gal has pulled him down and is pressing a slow kiss to his mouth, grinning into it. He pretends to think it over, and then lets himself be eased down until he’s all but straddling Gal, little space between them.

Then that space is gone, and Gal mutters, “Maybe this isn’t dignified enough for a magister.”

“Bloody barbarians,” Dorian retorts, but there’s no bite to the words when he follows them with a kiss. “And this is far from the most undignified position I’ve been in.”

“I see.” Gal grins. “Got any better suggestions?”

And that’s the thing: many would have said – Maevaris certainly would have said – that he could have had his pick of men in the Imperium, if he’d cared to.

But it wouldn’t have been this. Wouldn’t have been all the years of pain and care, or the way Gal  _looks_ at him, like the world declared the wrong one of them holy.

He says quietly, while Gal is making short work of his shirt, “I honestly thought I’d never see you again.” He didn’t mean to let the words out; they were far less troublesome in his head.

Gal pauses, and looks up, into his eyes. “I thought you’d forget me. Hoped you would, if it’d be easier for you.”

“I’ve never been much good at  _easier,”_ Dorian murmurs, impatiently throwing aside Gal’s leathers while Gal presses a kiss to his shoulder and then gets rid of his robes and undershirt. There’s tenderness in the touch, the way there was that first night he returned here, that first night years ago; the kind that would almost frighten him, if he didn’t long for it quite so much. They’ve had quick, silly fucks before, and slightly savage encounters in cupboards, but this… isn’t that. Far from it.

He feels Gal’s hand pause just under his ribs, and then Gal says, “I meant to ask. What’s this from?” Gal’s hand traces the lightning burn, and Dorian inhales sharply.

“Hm?” He pretends to be casual, even as he’s wondering how many of these scars Gal won’t recognise. “That’s from a Senate debate that span into a duel. It happens, sometimes.”

Worry crosses Gal’s face, briefly. “You…”

“Showed him the error of his ways, yes. By setting him on fire.”

Gal grins, and then…

Dorian makes a slightly undignified noise as he’s rolled over and then Gal’s kissing the scar, grinning up at him.

Yes, he could have had men in the Imperium. But it wouldn’t have been a pale, calloused hand taking his and gripping white-knuckled, like he’s the last anchor to sanity. Wouldn’t have been Gal’s exhaled  _I love you,_ quiet and painfully honest, accidental without being unwilling.

(“Again,” Dorian breathes, before he can help himself. At least all the times before, he could make some excuse for the request, could laugh it off…

“I love you,” Gal repeats, properly this time, with that steady certainty, even distracted as he is.

And Dorian grins fiercely, triumphant, and pulls him even closer, does his best to kiss him until it’s impossible and they’re both gasping for air.)

It wouldn’t have been the low laughter, or all the startled joy neither of them can quite contain. They’ve had silly rolls in the hay before, but this is less staving off boredom and more clinging to each other and making sure any of this is real.

All right, the throwing water at each other some time afterwards, and Gal mocking his most-of-a-beard before distracting him with wandering hands? Less the thing of epics, perhaps. But he’d rather have that than all the romantic tales in the world, even if he’s almost worried they’ll never find their way out of these quarters, at this rate. It took two attempts just to bathe. Surely they’re too old for this sort of thing – they’re meant to be  _respectable._

He snorts at that thought while using a spell to try and dry his damp hair. As if they’ve ever been  _that._

He hears quiet footsteps, and then the unlocking of the door. There’s a long pause, and then Gal clears his throat. “It… looks like they noticed our absence.”

Dorian frowns, and then Gal walks back across the room with, of all things, a… plate of sandwiches. One which must have been left outside.

Dorian tries to keep somewhat of a straight face. “They obviously thought we needed the energy.”

Underneath the tattoos, Gal has become rather pinker.

“We’ll have to come out of here at some point, you know.”

“Why?” Gal mumbles indignantly, through half a sandwich.

“We can’t just stay here forever…“ Dorian starts, and then he pauses, trying not to laugh at the look he receives in return. “You were going to suggest exactly that, weren’t you?”

“No,” Gal mutters, entirely unconvincingly. Then: “Yes.”’

 

 

They do end up leaving Gal’s quarters, in the end, though it takes nearly two days. Night’s beginning to fall when there’s a knock on the door and a call of, “Oi, if you two aren’t busy shagging each other’s brains out, drink, right?”

Dorian lifts his head from a half-doze on Gal’s shoulder. “We are not, in fact, shagging each other’s brains out. At least, not currently.”

“Yes,” is all Gal says, looking amused and raising his voice to carry through the door. “Drink.”

The Herald’s Rest – which, in fact, disturbed the actual Herald’s rest – is bustling when they arrive.

Sera is instantly beside Gal and saying, “So he’s finally stopped being an eejit, right?”

“Think the eejit was me,” Gal replies.

“Nah, you would’ve gone with him the first time. It was just the rest that was all… eejit-y.”

Dorian can’t help but chip in, then. “Beautifully put.”

“Galahad!”

They turn to see Josephine, her hair beginning to loosen from its bun and the hint of a flush on her cheeks. “I must say, Lord Dorian’s friends have… impressive tolerances.”

At another table, Mae raises a glass, as if summoned by the mere mention of her name.

Dorian laughs at that. “We  _invented_  wine. What did you expect?”

“I think you will find that was the Antivans,” she chides him. Then her eyes turn to Gal. “I am… very proud of you. Of you both. I will miss you. But I am happy for you. Which is why the first round… is mine.”

“I knew there was a reason I was so fond of our lady ambassador,” Dorian says to Gal, who grins.

If Gal is surprised by the hug Josephine gives him, Dorian is even more so when he receives one, too.

She moves to order their drinks, and for a moment, Dorian almost closes his eyes and tries to breathe it all in. Lets himself be home, truly. Beside him, he can feel Gal doing the same.

 

 

The ceiling of his quarters – his, not Gal’s – glows softly with the constellations he drew, years ago now. They lie there, and Gal says, “You taking them with you when we leave?”

Dorian grins. “Might as well. I’m taking the south for all it’s got.” He says it while looking at Gal’s writing, the little reminders of a life together, the way the spell wraps around them both. He thinks. “You know how I told you once of the temple in Minrathous? I’m going to show it to you.”

Gal swallows, turns onto his side to meet Dorian’s eyes. “The fountains in Qarinus?”

“I’m sure I can justify some sort of business trip. I’ll find something. I’ll… all of it. I’ll give you everything. Anything.”

“Same,” Gal says, instantly.

“We leave tomorrow, you know. I’m sure you’ll have all your things packed into ordered rows and alphabetised, but… nervous?”

“I probably should be. I just…Looking forward to being with you.”

“I… I feel the same. I want to show you all I can. There’s a room in the estate, it has a mahogany writing-desk, and the library… It’s yours. All of it. Anything you’d like.” Dorian pauses. “No, this is getting positively sugar-coated, forget I said anything. I should have just mocked your luggage habits instead.”

“I don’t know. I liked it.”

“You would. You’ve always had bad taste in men,  _amatus.”_ The word feels like relief, like truth, like it always has. He exhales with it. “Maker, I’ve missed saying that.”

“Missed hearing it,” Gal says. “ _Te amo_ , Dorian.”

And in the darkness, Gal’s hand wraps around his, and stays there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been one hell of a ride. If you're still reading, thank you for sticking with this ridiculously angsty AU. And for not making faces at me for the fluff (you can do that in the comments, if you wish, I suppose). But really, thank you.


End file.
